Birdcage Fires
by FallingDomino
Summary: After finding a naked girl on a lonely stretch of California road on a stormy night, Sam doesn't have long to try and help the amnesiac girl before Dean drags him back into the life of hunting. Over the past three years, he never really forgot her, but when they reunite, the brothers discover something much more sinister about the night Sam saved her. Sam/OC, Before S1, skips to S4
1. Doves in Hands

**I don't want to make this AN too long so let's get right off the bat.**

**Firstly, thanks for reading. I do not own Supernatural or any of its characters, asides from my brand new OC.**

**Second; HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SAMMY!**

**The story starts slightly prior to the pilot episode, but soon transcends to the fourth season.**

**Thanks for your time, and enjoy!**

_-One-_

Doves in Hands

_**Stanford, California**_

_**October 21st, 2005**_

_**7:56 p.m**_

_I always forget that stupid bump in the road, _Sam thought, swearing quietly as his car gave a small jerk as he drove down the nearly deserted backroad, which was shining with the remnant puddles of previous rainfall. The long branches from the trees on the side of the road were blowing ghostly in the strong winds, flying flecks of raindrops catching the light of the moon. He ignored the wind battering against the windows, its force so strong that for a few seconds it temporarily swerved the car a few centimeters.

As he heard his cell phone ringing, he struggled to root through his bag while keeping his eyes on the road, smiling a little as he saw the caller ID.

"Hey, Jess. I'm almost there."

"_Oh, great. Did you get the popcorn and Twizzlers?"_

"Yeah," he laughed, "I'll be there soon."

"_Awesome. Sarah and Fred are going to be here in ten-ish minutes and I already got out the Scrabble and Monopoly, also all the geekiest movies I could lay my paws on._"

"You're really set on this, huh?"

"_Yes," _she answered simply, "_Geekends are about the most exciting thing to be invented since Snickers ice cream. Anyway, I thought you liked Star Trek?"_

"More of a Star Wars fan, honestly."

"_Traitor," _she scathed lovingly.

Sam could hear the grin in his own voice as he spoke next, "Alright, I submit, but you have to consider calling it something other than Geekends; it's not the best incentive."

"_Says you," _she said, "_I just want you to have fun tonight; you deserve it, working your butt off the way you have been lately. Drive carefully, okay? I'll see you in a few and I love you!"_

"Love you too, Jess," Sam smiled and he hung up.

Now with only the radio for company, Sam listened vaguely to _Happy Together _by The Turtlesplaying softly, not nearly loud enough to overthrow the sound of the first few sprinkles of rain tapped loudly on the windshield or the roaring wind outside that was making its haunting howls more pronounced. He eyed the clouds above, which were thick, roundish, and had waves of white light flickering through them, proving a thunderstorm was on its way. He was soon having to squint his eyes and lean forward in the leather seat, slowing down almost twenty miles per hour. The wipers were making that loud squeaking noise and soon the windows were fogging up, making vision next to impossible.

_'I can't see me lovin' nobody but you for all my life; when you're with me, baby the skies will be blue for all my life,' _sang the radio, now barely audible due to the loud rain and bad reception.

"Damn it," Sam whispered. _I can't see anything. _The only reason he wasn't crashing was because he could still make sense of the double yellow lines in the center of the road, giving him an idea as to where the car was. He couldn't even hear his phone ringing and only noticed because it lit up again, but he thought he might crash into a tree if he didn't give the road his full attention.

The rain was becoming so powerful and fierce that it merely looked as though a billion different lines were painted in the scenery, obscuring ten feet in front of him.

_I'll just stop by the gas station up the road and give Jess a call, tell her I'm going to be a little late._

Though as the moments pressed on, Sam wondered if he would even make it that far.

There was a flash of white light that blended out every rain drop cleanly, lighting up the entire road only for a mere second. But in that second, Sam swore he could see something falling through the tall tree branches that hovered over the road.

"_Fu_—!" Sam slammed his foot on the brake so hard that it felt as though his seatbelt was compressing his organs and bones together. The car, no doubt due to the thick puddles of rain on the road, skidded an extra foot until the shape of whatever just fell was concealed completely by the hood. With panicky fingers, he put the car into park and took off his seatbelt, scrambling out the door and into the insane downpour of the storm.

It was hard to see even in the light of the headlights, but the next near blinding flash of lightening revealed that it was a person. The person, a girl, was lying on her back with her arms crossed over her chest and her hands folded as though she were holding something. She was completely naked, her light hair clinging to the road, swaying to the right of her body with the direction of the small stream that picked up.

Sam bent down, checking her pulse with two fingers he fought to keep sturdy. Her pulse was not only pumping, but pounding so hard against his fingers it was as though she had just crossed the ribbon of a twelve mile marathon.

_Is she drugged up? _Sam wondered fearfully, sweeping his wet bangs out of his face and squinting his eyes at her folded hands that appeared to be twitching. _It looked like she fell from the sky, though._

"Hey, can you here me?" he asked quickly, violently shaking his jacket off. He did not get an answer, but as he made to put the jacket over her pale, nude body, her hands began twitching again, like whatever she was holding within them was trying desperately to free itself. He made to unravel them, but before he could, the thing wriggled from under her fingers and at last broke free.

It was a bird, a dove, flapping its instantly damp wings dully and attempting to fly away, but the heaviness of the rain weighed it down immediately. Sam stared at it for only two seconds, allowing himself no time to ponder the strangeness of it and hastened to wrap his jacket securely around the girl and scooping her up into his arms. She was very light so he had no struggle getting her into the backseat of his car.

_._

Sam barely kicked in the two front doors of the hospital before calling, "Hey, I really need a doctor over here!"

Several people in mint-green scrubs attended to him almost at once, helping her body onto a rolling stretcher and shooting questions at Sam as he jogged to keep up.

"What happened?" one female nurse asked him.

"I'm not sure; I was driving and it looked like she fel—she was in the middle of the road."

"You don't personally know her?"

"No, I just—no, I don't."

"What were you doing driving on a night like this?"

"I was making a quick trip to the grocery store; the weather wasn't as bad when I left my apartment."

"She didn't have anything on her? Wallet, or ID of any kind?" shot a third male nurse at him.

"No," replied Sam edgily, eyes locking onto the girl's face which was as peaceful as though she had just taken an afternoon nap. He took a moment to register to what he thought was blonde hair in the darkness, was actually straight locks of pure white hair. "No, she was completely—completely naked when I found her. I just checked for a pulse and then came here."

A firm hand on his chest kept him from following the stretcher through the next pair of double doors. A female nurse had stopped him and he obeyed calmly, but his eyes followed the stretcher until the doors closed.

"We're going to run a few tests on the patient, see the possibilities if this was a rape, a hit and run, or something else. You may not know her, but we'd like you to stick around so we can ask you a few more questions. That alright?"

Sam opened his mouth, paused, and then nodded. His fingers were twitching anxiously; he was desperate to get a hold of Jess and let her know what was going on and why he wasn't at the apartment yet.

"Great, thank you. What's your name?"

"Sam Winchester."

"Well, Sam, you've been a real hero tonight."

Sam only frowned and gave a half-nod of thanks. "Um, if it's alright, I'd like to make a quick call before we get to the questioning?"

"Sure."

Jess freaked of course, somehow misunderstanding Sam into thinking that _he _was the one in an accident.

"No, really; I'm alright, Jess," he assured her, glancing around a corner and combing his fingers through his damp hair. "It was this girl in the middle of the road."

"_Girl? In the road? Who is she, do you know?"_

"No idea. I just made sure her heart was beating and then rushed to the hospital. They're running tests on her now."

"_Ohmygosh," _Jess breathed. "_I'm so glad no one got hurt, I mean hope she's okay. I think I should head over there."_

"You don't have to worry about it, Jess," he dismissed, "I just want to make sure she's not in a coma or anything and then I'll head out. I think I'm going to mess that double-date."

"_Don't even worry about it, Sam. Just make sure that girl is okay. Damn, that is so weird . . . are you __**sure **__you don't want me to come down there?"_

"I'm sure; it's still pouring out there and I don't want anymore accidents happening. I'll keep on giving you an update, alright?"

"_Alright, you knight in shining armor, you. I love you."_

"Love you, too."

The questions the doctors inquired of him were very basic; has he ever met the girl before, what condition was her body in, did she have any bruises or cuts, or any blood to speak of. The doctors left off a vague hint that the local police department was going to have to be involved and that Sam was going to have to answer all of the same questions all over again. Sam didn't mind very much, but as he checked his watch to see that it was nearly ten, he was becoming very anxious to see Jess.

Sam sat in the lobby, twiddling his thumbs together and gazing unseeingly at the abnormally loud clock on the wall opposite him, an approaching figure in a long white doctor's coat dragging his attention away from it. He stood up, swiping a hand down his tired face and blinking rapidly in attempt to make himself more awake.

"Sam Winchester?" the middle-aged doctor inquired, folding his clipboard under his arms. As Sam nodded, the doctor continued, "I'm Dr. Schultz. We've run all the tests we could think of on the victim and so far, not a one came out positive. There's no traces of seamen, no strained tissue, or any sign of a struggle, so we've ruled out the possibility of rape. In fact, there's no marking, bruising, cuts, or any indication that she was hurt at all. All of her vitals are in good working condition and her blood sugar is fine, a little dehydrated though. Her bloodstream is completely clean, too. You say she was just lying in the middle of the road in complete nudity?"

"Yeah," said Sam, putting his hands in his back pockets and frowning.

Dr. Schultz breathed out heavily so his bushy white mustache ruffled. "Well, hopefully we'll have some answers when she wakes up."

"So she's okay? I mean, she's not in a coma?"

The doctor gave him a small smile. "No, son. She's going to be just fine."

Sam sighed out in relief. "Okay. Thanks a lot, doctor."

"No, thank _you. _Who knows what might have happened to her if you hadn't found her when you did? Anyways, I assume you want some kind of update with her when she wakes up?"

"Yeah, that'd be fine."

"Right, well you can leave your contact information with my assistant, Judith, here . . ."

The storm took an abnormally quick amount of time clearing up, considering how bad it was but by the time Sam finally left the hospital, there were still a few sprinkles of rain drizzling on the windshield. Sam nearly fainted out of joy when he opened his apartment door only to find Jess had made him a steaming bowl of tomato soup and hot mug of herbal tea.

"Thanks so much, Jess," he sighed as he sat at the table.

"Anything for the guy who saves stranded girls on the road," she said, running her fingers through the still-damp locks of his hair before kissing him gently on the temple and sitting beside him. "Was it a long night? Did they find anything out about her?"

"Nothing, but they're going to give me a call when she wakes up, but they didn't clarify for when that might be."

"This is some weird crap going on. I'm just glad everyone's okay. Anyways, you must be exhausted. Want to get an early night?"

With sweet alleviation, after Sam was done with his dinner, he changed and crawled into bed after Jessica, holding her tender body gently under his arms but thinking hard over the events of the last few hours.

Sam tried to think of any logical explanation, any at all, that could answer the cause for the girl in the road. Admitting it was of anything of _that _world threatened to break down the walls he had spent so long maintaining. What if whatever the girl said when she woke up meant he had to look into it? Sam had sworn he had let that life behind when he left his father and Dean nearly four years ago, but if something was out there hurting people, could he just let it go?

Sam felt as if he had been sleeping for twenty minutes when someone was gently shaking his shoulder and he opened his eyes to meet Jess's smiling blue orbs.

"Hey, sleepyhead," she cooed, "I would've let you sleep in, but the sheriff's here to talk to you."

"Huh?" he said, sitting upright and blinking rather rapidly.

"About the girl? Remember?"

"Right, right," he murmured, grudgingly tossing the blankets off himself. "Hey, did the hospital call?"

Jess smiled. "Yeah, they did and they say she's awake and really anxious to meet you."

.

Sam would have dropped by the hospital immediately after the sheriff had bombarded him with the identical questions the doctors had asked him, but he had three of his college classes to attend to before he could meet the girl.

It was roughly a good day; Professor Stewart had graded his paper with a 97 with a small note at the top, '_Very astute piece of writing, though if the case were malum prohibitum you would have more luck defending your client who performed a white crime opposed to a dangerous one.'_

After having lunch with Jess and Brady, he announced he was going to at last go to the hospital and meet the mysterious girl. The doctor behind the counter recognized him from the other day and smiled warmly at him.

"Sam Winchester, right?" And as Sam nodded, "Right, well, she's awake, and she says she's dying to meet you. However, there are some technicalities that we didn't foresee."

"Like what?"

"Like she says she's suffering from total amnesia," Dr. Schultz replied and Sam raised his eyebrows.

"Completely?"

"Can't remember anything, not even her own name. We've taken it into consideration that when she ended up there she might have hit her head, or suffered highly on a traumatic level. Either way, we're appointing her a head scan soon. Would you like to see her?"

Sam nodded.

.

The girl was sitting completely upright in the hospital bed with her arms folded uncertainly in her lap, eyes flickering around the room until Sam entered who she anchored her gaze immediately on. She gave off an almost comical impression that she had not the faintest idea as to how she had ended up there. Her expression barely shifted as Sam edged his way awkwardly closer, smiling slightly as he pulled up one of the plastic chairs but not sitting on it yet.

He was not sure of her eye-color until she shifted a little so her gaze caught the glare of the white light above. It appeared to be a very dark green with a heavy black line that rimmed them. The whites of her eyes were unusually clean of any veins, making the green more pronounced.

There was a slightly youthful look to her that Sam struggled to grasp the reason behind. Was it that she seemed to open her eyes more so than others, giving off the illusion that they were bigger? Maybe her pale skin that had little to no healthy flush in it that gave Sam the impression of a porcelain doll. Under her right eye, on the top of her cheek bone was an imperfect beauty mark, taking more of a sideways oval shape than circular. The bottom of her lip was bigger than the top, and as they parted Sam could see her bottom row of teeth were slightly crooked in some places. Her cheekbones were high, jaw slightly narrow, and high upper eyelids that only did more work on making her look younger.

Despite her young look, Sam thought her to look at least in her late teens to early twenties.

Though of course the strangest feature about her was her pure white sheet of completely straight hair. Sam had a feeling if he held up a sheet of printer paper to it, her hair would have made it look gray.

Her button nose crinkled slightly as he sat down before her, folding his arms in front of him and trying to smile gently again. "Uh, hi."

She watched him, her lips working oddly, as if she was trying to remember how to smile. "Hello."

"Um, my name is Sam Winchester. I guess, uh, I guess I'm the one who found you."

Again, her eyebrows twitched to frown, but she looked as though she were struggling to remember how to form the expression. "Oh."

"They told me you said you can't remember anything."

"Anything at all," she confirmed, sinking a little further back into the mattress, her unblinking gaze still on him. "Even words. I couldn't answer the question they asked 'who is the president'. I can't even remember what a president is."

Sam's eyebrows rose against his will. "What's the first thing you remember?"

"This bed," she said, shifting again. "A beeping noise, a pain in my skin. The unfriendly white light above. I've asked them to turn it off but they say they need it for more testing. I don't want more testing. I want to go somewhere else."

The use of her words, the simplicity of them; they too gave off a slightly juvenile approach. Sam smiled again for some reason.

"Where would you go?" he asked her.

She looked stumped at the question. "I don't know the answer. The people here; they give me these small pills filled with white powder and tell me it will make me feel better. It makes me tired, which make my eyes shut . . ." She continued to watch him in a way that made Sam almost feel as if his privacy was being disturbed. "They told me you saved me, Sam Winchester. I can't fully remember what that means, only that I owe you in some manner."

Sam lifted up a quick hand, chuckling uncertainly. "Whoa there. Don't worry. You don't owe me anything. I couldn't just leave you there in the road. I'm just glad you're okay."

"I would like to say I am, if I could remember what 'okay' really meant. Do you know?"

The left corner of Sam's lips twitched upward with precariousness. "I guess you got me there." He noticed that her lips seemed to keep mainly parted, revealing the bottom of her front teeth. "I'm going to guess you don't recall a name?"

"Nothing. They've been calling me patient 'one-eighteen', but I have no recolle—recollec . . . I, uh, still have no memory. None. I still have to look every five minutes in the mirror to remember what I look like."

Sam frowned, sitting up straighter. "What's that like?"

"Funny. I can't remember a name, but I can tell that I like the way you wear your hair." She looked at him. "Is that weird?"

Sam smiled timidly. "I think it's a good sign, actually. Well—do you know any names? I mean you have to call yourself something until you remember."

For the first time, she smiled, and the simple action was very effective in changing the light on her face. The apples of her cheeks became very bold when her lips stretched upward, and this small change made her eyes seem brighter somehow. "I like your—confidence, Sam Winchester. The white-coated men and women say the possibility of my memories returning are entirely unpredictable. I would prefer to have them back; it's a struggle not to remember who I am, the things I like and dislike, my favorite food and music. I am not much of a person without them."

"I'm sure it'll come to you eventually," said Sam, leaning back in his chair and wondering if he believed his own words.

"I don't know that. They've sent out pictures of myself in case anyone recognizes me, but they say I might have to be transferred to a hospital in a place called Colorado to see more doctors, ones that are more suited to dealing with my condition."

_The loony bin, _Sam thought before he could stop himself. "How do you feel about that?"

"I don't like the idea of more doctors, but I want to remember." She paused. "Even a name."

"Well, what do you want to call yourself in the meantime?"

"It should mean something. At least, I think it should." She got a very strange glint in her eye, smiling in a way that was much too mischievous for a girl who probably couldn't even remember what that word meant. "You should name me."

"What?" Sam laughed.

"I'd rather you than me; I don't know any. You seem like a nice, tall person; you could probably come up with a good one."

Sam looked at her childishly expectant face carefully, wondering why he was smiling so widely. "What if I gave you a really stupid one and you wouldn't know it was stupid?"

"I wouldn't mind; I would just be glad to have something that yougave me."

They eyed one another for a few moments, up until Sam chuckled again and scratched his chin with a small shrug. "Um, I don't know." His eyes fixed on her hair, trying to think of some name that could relate to it, but all that came to mind was Storm from _X-Men. _Storm. Well, he _did _find her in a storm, maybe that was some kind of sign, and he did kind of like it. He coughed, "Uh, what about—how do you feel about Storm?"

"Storm?" The sparkle returned to her eyes, but her lips were closed this time when she smiled. "I like it. My name is when the rain falls. Thank you, Sam Winchester."

"Just Sam," he smiled. "Hopefully you can remember everything soon."

"Are you leaving?" she asked as he stood up.

"Yeah, I probably should. But I'm really glad you're okay, uh, Storm."

She looked confused as to what to feel, but she was frowning at the mattress. She glanced back up at him. "Will you be able to visit again?"

"Um, maybe," he said, seeing no reason why he couldn't.

She smiled shyly and her eyes flickered, as though embarrassed to make eye-contact. "I'd like that. I want to see your face again many times in the future."

Sam chortled, "Alright. I'll try my best."

.

Later the next day as the aging nurse named Betty was checking Storm's blood pressure, she said with a minxy wink that collided oddly with the wrinkles around her eyes, "Saw that cutie-patootie visiting you earlier. Now that's what you call Prince Charming, I suppose."

"He is charming," Storm agreed, "A prince—I haven't asked."

Betty looked as if she wasn't sure whether to inform the amnesiac girl of the fairy tale, but as Storm looked up at her, she merely smiled tightly and made to remove the band from her bicep.

"Can I take a walk?" Storm asked.

"A walk where?"

"Somewhere—anywhere that isn't in this room. I'd like some air."

"Patients aren't permitted to exit the establishment. If you want to stretch your legs, you can walk around the hospital for a bit."

Storm nodded, desperate to get out of the tiny square room and away from the whites tiles, white walls, and the lights that left temporary specks in her vision. Though admittedly, wandering the narrow corridors was not much better. The perfectly symmetrical walls and tiles made her feel vaguely dizzy and the stares she got from the other patients who were eying her hair were making her feel out place.

Nearing the front of the hospital, Storm discovered the gift shop which was more like a miniature book store. Grateful she could at least remember to read, she entered it and asked the tired looking man behind the counter if she could stay for awhile and browse the shelves of novels and magazines. He gave a noncommittal grunt of approval and Storm happily indulged herself in several different books which ranged from cooking ones to the children's section.

After awhile of being stuffed in the dark corner of the deserted shop, Storm found herself surrounded by tall towers of books of almost every genre. Currently she held one that helped identify certain breeds of birds. It had captured her eye at once and sometimes she found herself guessing the name of bird before she even read on it, making her wonder if she was some sort of bird keeper before the incident.

A pair of old sneakers appeared in her vision, and her eyes lifted up along long legs and pronounced torso, which then led to Sam Winchester's face which was split in a small, friendly smile.

"They told me I could find you here," he said, shifting a heavy-looking black book bag over his shoulder, surveying her criss-crossed position.

"I'm glad you came again," she said, lowering the book into her lap.

"Yeah, of course. I'm guessing no snappy miracles of getting your memory back happened as you slept?"

"Nothing. It's a little disconcerting, but only if I think about it for too long." She stood up, pointing at his bag. "What's that for?"

"Oh, I just came back from college. You remember . . . ?" Sam was uncertain whether it was rude or not to ask if she remembered what college was, but she smiled.

"I do. What are you studying?"

"Mainly law, with a few other side classes of criminal justice. I—just wanted to see how you're doing. About the same?"

"More or less."

Sam watched her handle the book. "Oh, you like birds?"

She looked down at it, and then back at him. "I think I do, which I guess is a good sign. The doctor also suggested I go through a baby name book and see if I find mine."

"Here," said Sam, indicating for her to hand him the book. With only the slightest of pauses, she did and Sam placed the book on the counter, pulling out his wallet.

"You're buying me the book?"

"I mean, you have to have something to keep you occupied in here," he said, handing it back to her after a quick 'thanks' to the cashier. They walked out of the book store together.

"Thank you," she said seriously, meeting him dead in the eye and gratefulness hanging to every breathy tone. Sam laughed uncertainly.

"Don't worry about it. Worth every four dollars and fifty cents." Storm giggled. "So do you know what's next on the agenda?"

"They're going to run a CAT scan—which for the life of me I really have no memory of, and I'm just imagining someone placing a cat over my face."

"Not sure that's how it works," smiled Sam as they started walking their way slowly down the hallway. "It's a big machine that they put you under and do an X-ray of your brain. They'll probably be searching for places that you could have bumped your head and ended you up with memory loss."

"My nurse also said that something very traumatic could have made all of this happen, which makes me a little wary of remembering. If something so bad happened that my brain forced me to forget it, maybe it's safer turning a blind eye."

Sam had no response to this.

.

As it turned out, Sam did visit Storm frequently the next few days. The longest he stayed was a good half an hour or hour on a rainy day. She never asked much of him, but she did request things one that lost their memory would only require. For instance, she came up with a game in which Sam would pick a word from the dictionary and she would try to guess what they meant. Depending on the word, she was about fifty-fifty with getting them correct. She was particularly confused when Sam found the word 'apple-knocker'(an ignorant or unsophisticated person)and was convinced he was making it up until he showed her the page it was listed on.

Sam had brought a playing deck of Uno cards that had been stuffed in the back of his closet in the apartment for the longest time and knew she would thoroughly enjoy them. It didn't take much to please her; he could hold up his fingers to a light and make a shadow puppet and she would call him a glorious, tall, nice person. She nearly lost her head completely when he told her she could keep the cards.

Sam could understand her behavior; apart from a vague idea of common sense, with no memory to recall the world before, everything was shiny and new to her, resulting in a slightly youthful behavior.

He didn't mind spending time with her, in fact, he enjoyed it almost as much as she seemed to. He liked that she liked little things, such as when she expressed the feeling that it was fun for her to watch him do his homework, how when he really concentrated the wrinkles between his eyebrows when frowning would form an upside down 'U'. He liked that she would never eat her Jello, but poke at it with her spoon for nearly five minutes just to watch it wiggle. He liked how curious she was almost about everything, mostly about the things he did. She said she liked to hear him talk about his college classes even if she knew nothing about them, but just enjoyed seeing how his eyes lit up when he spoke of something he had a passion for.

Within the first week, Storm had discovered that she liked things such as writing and drawing, with little patience for math and science. Though she was not very good at either, Sam was able to make out a sort of bird on the printer paper the doctor had given her to draw on. Her handwriting was a little messy, but she was glad she could at least remember how to spell.

On Friday, Sam finally thought it a good idea to bid to Jessica's curious desires and introduce the two. Storm liked Jess a lot, greeting her with a compliment on her long, curly blonde hair and left it off on an inquiry as to why she was the only one with white locks.

On a chilly Sunday afternoon, Sam sat beside her bed, playing Uno which was usually how they started their visit. The wind lashed against the window and the open blinds revealed the gray clouds that were almost identical to the ones that had been in the sky the night Sam found her.

"Dr. Schultz told me yesterday that I'll be transferred to another hospital on Wednesday," Storm started carefully as she placed her red card over the one Sam had just placed in the pile. His gaze lifted.

"Oh, um . . . do you still not want to go?"

"This past week, the reluctance has built. I've enjoyed our time together—more so than you can imagine, Sam Win—" She cut herself off with a guilty smile. "I can at least say that I will always have the name you gave me; this is a strange comfort."

Sam sat back in his chair, fondling the cards softly between his fingers and trying to smile, but it almost hurt to try and force it. He sincerely wanted Storm to get better; he wanted her to remember her life, her likes and dislikes, for her to return to her family. He supposed he was merely disgruntled at how little he had to offer her, or just the small part he had played for her. He wished he could help to any degree, but he knew there was nothing he could do. He guessed he had made her stay at the hospital a little more enjoyable, but the week had flown by much too quickly and Sam was sad, even mortified, that they would be taking their own paths soon.

Knowing she would be gone in the next few days, Sam found himself strangely thinking about all the things that he would be missing about her; her slightly crooked teeth, how when she laughed she really gave it her all and resembled something like a chicken that had too much bird feed stuck in its throat, her unbreakable interest in whatever he had to say, or how she had a very specific way of speaking and that honesty was something she never left out, whatever she might say.

The next few days that felt much more like three hours, the weather had not submitting to a warmer climate and on Sam's last visit to Storm, the gray atmosphere that could be seen outside of her room window had never been so miserably pronounced. He rattled his knuckles twice on the door even if Storm had already acknowledged his presence. Opposed to her general position under the covers, she was sitting on the edge of her bed with a paper and pencil, using the bird book as a hard surface.

"Hey," he greeted.

"Hi."

"Guess this is my last chance to see you."

"I'm being flown to Colorado with an escort tomorrow—so yes." In a pause where the only noise was the wind was battering so fiercely against the glass window it was as if it was trying to force itself inside, they measured each other carefully with one another's stare. "I'm sad about this."

His lips twitched, but his face seemed very unwilling to permit a smile. He handed her a small slip of paper. "It's my phone number. Keep in touch."

She took it with all her ten thin fingers, examining it longer than necessary. She looked up with a sad smile. "I will. I have a piece of paper for you, too."

She handed him the paper she had just been drawing on and Sam let out an appreciative chuckle. It was more or less better than a child's drawing, but Sam knew he could hardly do better. He could at least make out the scene of a girl, obviously Storm, sitting on a bed and an exaggeratedly tall male sitting beside her. Both were holding Uno cards. They were unnecessarily labeled 'Storm' and 'Sam Winchester.'

"This is great. Thanks."

"Now's the part where you tell me you'll hang it on your refrigerator," she said and Sam laughed.

"Yeah, obviously. This is top quality refrigerator material."

He fondled the paper softly. He still hadn't sat down, but he had a feeling this wasn't going to be one of those visits where they play cards and read books together.

"I'll miss you, Sam Winchester."

His gaze lifted to hers and his chest tightened. He nodded softly. "Yeah. I'll miss you, too."

"If we're lucky, maybe we'll meet in the near future. Maybe I'll become a law student and take the same classes you do."

"You could," he said half-heartedly still with that strained smile.

"Will you always be here?"

"I don't know where else I'd be."

"I'll come back here knocking on the door like in that movie with the guy and the ax! Heeeeere's Stormy!"

"Yeah, but if you hack at the front door with an ax, I think you might scare Jessica."

"Maybe a little. I'll do it very discreetly."

A breathy laugh left his nostrils. "Alright."

"I want you to take good care of yourself, because I like the way you are, so don't change."

"You take care of yourself, too. Make sure to call and tell me if there's any progress with your memory."

"I'll call everyday, if you want."

"Don't strain yourself."

There was a knock on the door and a young male nurse poked his head in the room. "Stor—um, miss? There's a few papers and discussion we need to go over before you leave early tomorrow. If you could come with me?"

Storm got to her feet, but she was still staring up at Sam, smiling. "This is the goodbye scene, then?"

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I suppose it is."

Sam was surprised when she suddenly hugged him, but was pleased all the same. Storm was not that short, but she still had to stand on her tippy toes in order for her face to be even somewhat level with his. Her lips just barely tickled the side of his cheek before she withdrew shyly, giggling in a terrified sort of way.

"Goodbye, Sam Winchester."

.

Sam was thinking hard all the way to his car, not even realizing he had missed the ignition several times before finally starting the engine. His brow was severely furrowed as he rolled out of the parking lot, turning on the windshield wipers as the next storm approached.

Then, with a jolt, he suddenly realized that he had been so caught up in everything, that he had _completely _forgotten about what had happened when he found her in front of his car. He hadn't mentioned to her that he had found a dove in her hands, but what with everything else, this trivial matter slipped from his mind entirely. Anyway, it was too late now, but he wondered vaguely where the bird was now, and why she was holding it in the first place.

Sam breathed out heavily, his chest rising and falling.

_Wow, _he thought, _I really **am **going to miss you._

* * *

**Thoughts? :]**


	2. Some of Us Remember Those Stormy Nights

**I'm so happy that it seems many of you enjoyed the first chapter! Thanks for all the awesome starter reviews that pumped me up to write the second one. In case you were curious, this chapter is based on the ninth episode of season four, _I Know What You Did Last Summer._**

**Please enjoy!**

_-Two-_

Some of Us Remember Those Stormy Nights

_**Kingdom, Oklahoma**_

_**November 13th, 2008**_

_**11:40 am**_

_**Three Years Later**_

"Sammy, would you keep all of your crap contained in one side of the car? The hell is this?"

Sam swiped the wrinkled paper from Dean's fingers before he could thoroughly examine it.

"Nothing."

Dean raised two eyebrows. "You draw that?" he snickered, craning his neck to try and get a second glimpse, "Looks like a five year old did it. Well that's just adorable."

"No, I didn't draw it. Dude, let's just go."

"Seriously, what is it?" Dean was grinning.

"Dean," Sam said exasperatedly, folding the paper tightly together before stuffing it into the breast pocket of his jacket. He exited the Impala, hoping to discreetly end the conversation and to his relief, Dean just shrugged before following the youngest into the dimly lit bar.

There were not a great deal many people inside. While Dean was busy ordering up some food for the two of them, Sam had other things on his mind as he bought a beer from the bartender. With his eyes on the players of the pool table, he raised the beer to his mouth but kept his lips tightly shut, pretending to drink. Eventually, he gathered his way to the pool table where a large beefy man was evidently counting his winnings, looking up as the swaying man approached him.

"You bet?" Sam asked in a slightly vacant voice, taking another fake-sip of beer.

"How much?"

"Two hundred."

"You sober enough to deal, son?"

"I'm fine."

"F'you insist . . . what's your name?"

"Sam."

"Well, Sam, I'm Brian." They shook hands. "You set it up and go first."

Sam lost the first round, though purposefully. He let out a low breath that ruffled his bangs, staggering slightly as he got down from his sitting-position on the pool table.

"Brian, c'mon, man; just one more time," he slurred, "Just give me a chance to win it back."

"It's your money," Brian shrugged.

Sam caught sight of Dean making his way through the bar with a large plate of home fries in his right hand and cheeseburger in the other. He was looking at Sam warningly, and then to Brian. "Yeah, excuse me. Think my brother here is a little too sauced up to be makin' bets."

"He insisted," said Brian.

"Yeah, but you've already taken, what? Two bills of 'im? I'm just sayin'."

"Hey, shut up, Dean. I'm fine," said Sam.

"No you're not! You're drunk!"

Sam ignored his brother, turning back to Brian,"Let's make it five-hundred dollars."

"Five-hundred dollars?" Dean echoed angrily.

"Sure," said Brian. "Your break."

As Sam circled the pool table, he shot Dean an expression of which he hoped proved he was completely sober. Dean gave him a meaningful look, but Sam wasn't paying much attention to the game anymore. Across the building right by the bar was a familiar brunette looking his way. His jaw clenched as her eyes beckoned him over.

"Keep the money," he told Brian dismissively.

"Keep the money?" Dean demanded, "What—?" But he too spotted Ruby and released a small sigh of indignation as he followed Sam across the bar. "You gotta a lot of nerve to be showin' up here."

"I just have some info, and then I'm gone," she said, glancing from Dean to Sam.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"I'm hearing a few whispers."

"Oh great, demon whispers," Dean said with a sardonic nod of his head, "'Cause that's always reliable."

Ignoring Dean, Ruby pressed on with her eyes still on Sam, "Girl named Anna Milton escaped from a locked ward yesterday. The demons seem pretty keen on finding her. Apparently some really heavy-hitters turned up for the easter-egg hunt."

"Why? Who is she?"

"No idea. But I think she's important, 'cause the order is to capture her alive. I just figured whatever the deal is, you might wanna track down this girl before the demons do."

Sam shifted, planting a pressing glance on his brother. "Look, maybe we should check this out."

Dean gave Sam an irritable expression before directing at Ruby, "Actually, we're workin' on a case, but thanks."

"What case?" she said with slightly raised brows.

"Uh, we've got leads. Big leads."

"Sounds dangerous."

"Yeah, well, it sure ain't goose chasin' a random chick or two, for all we know, doesn't exist, just because you say she's important."

"I'm just delivering the news. You can do whatever you want with it. Far as I'm concerned, I told you. I'm done."

"Wait, wait, wait," said Sam before she could turn away and ignoring Dean's look of warning, "This hospital—it got a name?"

"Connor Beverly Behavioral Medicine Center—about a ten hour drive from here to Colorado."

The blood from the tips of Sam's fingers drained.

"Sammy?" said Dean as Sam's lips pursed.

"Thanks, Ruby," he said slowly and she stalked off.

"Sam, what was that? I just saw about ten alarm bells go off in your face," said Dean.

"It's nothing—I mean, it might be nothing."

"Might be and are—two completely different things. What's up?"

_It couldn't be the same hospital, could it? That was over three years ago, who is there to even say she's still there, if this is in fact the same one?_

Involuntarily, Sam pressed a hand over the small bulge in his breast coat pocket, hearing the paper crinkle. He met his brother's eyes.

"Dean, do you remember that time I told you about the night two weeks before Jess died?"

.

"I'm really not getting your taste in women, Sammy," mumbled Dean as they entered the hospital, patting his inner pockets to make sure his fake FBI badge was still in tact. He shot Sam a sideways glance. "I mean, first Madison, then Ruby, now we're actually checkin' in a loony bin for some chick that you used to know? Saved, whatever."

"I only knew her for a little more than a week," Sam said evasively.

"Yeah, and it's been like, what, three years since then? You really think she would remember you?"

"I don't know," Sam admitted with a small sigh, "Maybe not. I mean, last I checked she didn't remember anything before the night I found her. I want to check on her, see if she's okay or remembers anything."

Sam's mind wandered vaguely back to that night three years ago. He could not directly remember what she looked like, only that she had white hair and a beauty mark on her cheek. He also remembered he had given her his number so she could call him if she wanted, but what with Dean's sudden appearance, Jess' death, and looking for their father, he had forgotten to keep in touch.

"Always the heroic," Dean said with a small sniff of laughter as they approached the front desk. Any desire to make fun of his younger brother was soon snapped away as he caught sight of the attractive redheaded nurse who sat behind the counter, looking up expectantly at the two men. They pulled out their badges. "FBI, fed Arnold Peters and my partner Donald Ryan. We're here investigating the case of Anna Milton—and also I wouldn't mind investigating further into those pretty brown eyes."

Sam sighed out _the _sigh that he regularly did whenever in the company of his brother and attractive women. The nurse smiled at him but said, "The feds were here yesterday?"

"Our company likes us to do a very thorough investigation—y'know, scoop for anything the other detectives might've missed."

"Well, you're certainly more attractive than the last two were here."

Dean slipped on his lopsided smirk.

"Well, Anna's room is on the second floor, number B12. Tell them I sent you."

"Oh, um, if it's okay do you mind we ask you a few more questions?" Sam said hastily. She looked back up at him in surprise, but nodded. "Was there a—uh, Storm Anyone here who has been admitted within these past couple of years, if she isn't still?"

Sam suddenly wondered worriedly if she would have changed her name, and who could blame her? It was a really stupid name he came up with on the spot.

The nurse's red lips parted. "Storm—oh, you mean Storm Walker?" Dean snorted. "She was dismissed from this hospital one year ago."

"Really?" Sam said, eyebrows rising out of surprise. The nurse eyed him, almost suspiciously.

"Why do you need to know about her?"

"That's, uh, classified," said Sam, saying the first excuse that came to his head. "Do you know how she's doing?"

Sam must have been losing his image as an impressive authority figure because Dean suddenly said, "C'mon, Hercules," while tapping him on the shoulder to get him moving down the hallway. "Storm Walker? Does she have a long distance cousin named Luke Skywalker, or is she just Native American?"

"She must have given herself a last name over the years," said Sam thoughtfully, "I wonder why they dismissed her?"

"Dunno," Dean shrugged as they started walking up the stairs, glancing over his shoulder back at the front desk, "But did you see that girl? Felt like I just walked into one of those porn scenes with the sexy redhead nurse. Only, you know, blue scrubs instead of hot white mini dress."

Sam sighed exasperatedly as they reached the second floor. "Glad to see we're on the same page."

.

"And . . . why should I let you into the back room?"

The man's eyes, as everyone else's always did when first meeting Storm, flickered immediately to the mane of pure white starlit hair on her head. Depending on the person, it usually took about ten seconds for anyone to even register her facial features, but for this man behind the counter, it took him approximately fifteen for him to meet Storm's eyes.

"I used to be a patient here, not four years ago. I know they still keep a file on me and I'd like to see it," said Storm, eying his name tag that read 'Charlie.'

"Uh-huh," sniffed Charlie, "Well, we can't just hand out personal files to just anyone. You got a name?"

"Storm Walker."

If Suspicion had a face, Storm had a funny feeling that Charlie would live up to every expectation. His unusually straight brows were raising higher as he shifted another quick gaze to her hair.

"Oh yeah? So where's Wolverine and Cyclops?"

"Ohh . . . persuasion. I've read about this. I—have perky breasts."

The man blinked. "What?"

"That's what usually works on men, right? Or am I doing this wrong?"

Charlie laughed dryly. "Look, honey, I don't want to cut your wheels off or anything, but you're really barking up the wrong tree."

"No, I'm pretty sure everyone finds breasts amazing; even gay men."

Charlie sat back in his chair, a pen between his finger and tapping it irritably on the desk surface. "You're really trying to get your way into confidential files because of the shape and abundance of your _rack?"_

"Yeah."

"What a compelling argument."

"You don't seem much like a doctor."

"And you would know?"

Storm smiled. "They were the first people I've ever known and I've had many years examining them, seeing what shapes and sizes they come in. You're not one of those sizes."

"You got me; secretary. Now buzz off."

"Is there someone around here that hasn't been hired within the past year?"

"Oh—oh, Storm! My God, what are you doing here?"

Storm and Charlie both looked up to see a curvaceous redheaded nurse making her way toward the two, her brown eyes bugging slightly as they landed on the taller female.

"Jana," Storm smiled in relief.

Jana let out an incredulous little laugh, swinging a quick arm around Storm's neck and hugging her closer before ushering her down the hallway without a second glance toward Charlie who began muttering darkly again.

"What are you doing here? How've you been? I heard you got an apartment the south side of the city."

"I've been fine, I did, and it's not to reminisce over the good memories. I was trying to get my file that the doctors that had been keeping on me for over two years."

"Why?" said Jana, her eyes widening slightly.

"I still can't remember anything beforehand, so I'm attempting to sweep over the past three years, see if anything can help me."

"Does it scare you? I mean, going on for so long without knowing who you were before?"

"It used to. I've had time to gather the bits that build my personality. Though it took me three years to discover I hate sprinkles on vanilla ice cream."

Jana gave her a timid smile. "I've actually missed you a lot. What have you been up to?"

"Working up to earning my GED and then enrolling in a college, preferably somewhere by the coast."

"What are you interested in studying?"

"Law."

"Not that we're supposed to have favorites—but well, yeah, you were my favorite patient. Lately I've been dealing with this girl who keeps on going about the end of the world, something about breaking sixty-six seals in order to free Lucifer." Jana rolled her eyes and laughed in a way that made it seem she was expecting Storm to join. When she didn't, Jana's chortle faded off awkwardly.

"Who's this girl?" Storm asked.

"Well, um, she actually escaped. The other night," Jana explained, inclining her head closer so a doctor nearby wouldn't hear them. "She was absolutely bonkers. Schizophrenia. We had FBI here not too—" She paused, eyes widening again as though she had just remembered something. "Storm, you're not in any trouble are you?"

"Should I be?"

"No, it's just—the two men that were here early this morning—the FBI—they asked after you. Well, one of them did."

Storm frowned. "The FBI were asking about me?"

"They didn't question me much," Jana shrugged, "Just asked if there was someone called Storm admitted in this hospital and I told them you were dismissed a year ago. That's it. Didn't even ask for your last name."

"What did these men look like?"

Jana considered. "Like—well, they were both really hot." She giggled. "Kind of every girls' fantasy of a Law Enforcement man to look like. One was really tall, kinda shaggy hair. The other—I don't know how to describe them, really. They didn't look like cops, that's for sure."

Her gaze wavered for a few moments above Jana's head, her eyebrows coming together as she softly closed her eyes. _As far as I know the Law has no reason to come looking for me, unless it's somehow related to my life before. But if that were true, they would have asked more about me rather than simply inquire if I was still admitted here and then leave. _

"Storm?"

Storm opened her eyes. "I don't think it's anything to worry about."

"Alright," said Jana, somewhat skeptically, "Anyway, I can help you with those files you need. You really think looking over doctor's notes over the past three years will help you?"

"It's not just prior to the three years that I have trouble remembering," Storm admitted solemnly, "In general, everything is fuzzy. I have difficulty remembering small things, even things that happened the previous day." Jana's face fell into silent sympathy. "Thank you for helping me."

.

It was late evening by the time Storm returned to her apartment in the lonely, slightly shabby building that sat on the bad part of the city. The red curtains on the balcony door were drawn and with the beam of the sunset streaming through them made a ruby-red almost magenta coloring in the small one-bedroom apartment.

Almost on every inch of the brick walls there were either pencil sketches or newspaper articles. Many of the drawings consisted mainly of birds Storm had made while sitting on the balcony and observing the many that sat on the railing or bird house. The cutout newspaper articles however were almost completely yellow from how often Storm had gone over it with a highlighter, often the title having to do with mysterious murders, kidnaps, or just odd news in general.

She entered the kitchen with the many toppling paper bags of groceries in her hands, kicking the fridge door open and placing everything in the correct area. After grabbing a small bag of Cheetos and making herself some green tea, she went out onto the balcony to refill the bird feeder, watched the sunset for a few minutes, and then went back inside.

Her desk that sat next to the worn out black leather couch in the living room was littered with dried tea bags, folded up pieces of paper, and rough sketches that Storm knew she would never finish. She used two hands to brush aside all of the trash into the already overflowing garbage beside the desk, heaving her bag into her lap and taking out the two manila envelopes, one labeled, 'Storm Walker' and the other, 'Anna Milton.' She had made sure Jana's gaze was steered clear as she slipped Anna's file swiftly into her bag back at the hospital.

Storm drank deeply from her tea as she opened Anna's file, skipping over the basic info until she read the lines 'Reported seeing what she called demons with black eyes. Recently has told the doctors that voices she says are angels are talking of a woman named Lilith releasing the Devil from Hell.' Connected to this was a line that led to a small scribbled note, 'Anna's father was a church deacon—obvious signs of supreme religious influence.'

Storm pressed the tip of her middle finger in the center of her right temple where a sharp pain suddenly started. These pains often occurred, usually at random but the doctor had still prescribed her pain medications even if she insisted that any sort of medical supplement had no effect on her, not even caffeine.

'_Castiel and Uriel—looking for the Anna girl. Wonder if . . . Winchesters . . . as usual.'_

Storm pressed harder onto her temple, closing her eyes briefly. If Storm could find this Anna girl, who was evidently more than just some schizophrenic, maybe she could explain that they had several things in common.

Storm stood up, finishing her mug of tea and absently placing it in the sink in the kitchen.

If Storm had ever told her doctors that she was hearing voices every now and again, they would have never dismissed her. Now she only dealt with weekly therapy sessions, some of which Dr. Pammelton attempted a deep hypnosis, but every time they got potentially close to obtaining one of Storm's memories, she would break out into a violent seizure and get a nosebleed. So obviously the doc decided against it.

Barely paying attention to her actions, she sat back down at her desk and bumped a book off of it. She bent down to retrieve it, almost putting it away again before her eyes grazed the cover.

_The Complete Book of Northern California Birds._

The book had been so frequently used that the cover did not entirely close all the way anymore. She opened it at random, landing on a page that listed all the info about, very coincidentally, a bird called Anna's Hummingbird.

Why had she kept it for all these years, and so closely? For one, she knew it front to back and could revise almost any paragraph from any page.

_Winchester . . . Winchester . . . that name rings a friendly bell. I have an image of a face but . . . who **is **it?_

Storm pushed aside Anna's file, pulling up her own and turning immediately to the front page.

'Subject's age is unknown, approximately 18-24, White(?) Hair, Green eyes, Caucasian, 127 Pounds, Suffers from complete amnesia . . .' Aha. 'Found around eight pm on October 21st, 2005 by Stanford student, Sam Winchester. Has never met victim prior to this event.'

All it took was the name and Storm remembered everything from that night—almost everything. Sam Winchester, the one with the pretty-haired girlfriend and studied law at Stanford University. He had bought her a book, _this _book that she held in her hands. He said he had found her in the middle of the road during a roaring storm, which is where he had given her the name she claimed to this very day. She recalled his smile that made his eyes ten times brighter, how when he laughed he got a small crinkle in his nose. He spoke with honesty, care, and friendliness.

Storm sat back in her chair, her loose gaze vaguely planted on the wall in front of her. It wasn't as if she had ever really forgotten about him, moreover that she had not had contact with him once since she said goodbye to him at the hospital in California, which she remembered feeling very sad over. She had tried calling him a few times, but he never picked up. Assuming he had not wanted to speak to her anymore, she gave up and focused on getting better. Though he's always been dimly there in the back of her mind somewhere, waiting to be remembered.

She supposed she could look him up, but what would she even say if he answered? 'Hi, it's been about three years, but I'm that girl you found in the middle of that thunderstorm. Still no memory. How are you?'

Even in Storm's head the words sounded stupid. And in any case, she had no reason to worry over him anymore; she had her own life set up, she was taking classes as the local community college, and was working part-time at a friendly cafe in the center of town.

Of course, there was always the additional 'cases' she took on the side. Storm was no expert and nor did she pretend to be, but after being attacked by a black-eyed woman two years ago, the event had awakened her eyes to something bigger and much darker. With the voices she occasionally heard always speaking of angels, demons, and other creatures Storm had never even heard of, she somehow judged against the theory that she was crazy and did her research instead. The lore she found on most of these creatures begged more of her curiosity and when she could, she found cases in the paper to see if it led to anything demonic. Storm was never really good at this considering she neither had experience in this matter or physical training, but she knew these things were dangerous and all she wanted to do was help. Though she admitted tracking down demons and other various creatures was not a habit anyone should have if they wished to hold onto a normal lifestyle.

But this Anna girl—if she could also hear voices, maybe she had some answers to the questions Storm had been asking herself for three years.

Storm perused Anna's file further into the night, long enough for her to drink four more mugs of green tea and that a pile of ashes lay on the desk's surface from all the rose incense Storm had been burning. Storm only slept three hours a night and never once woke up feeling unrefreshed or not fully rested.

_If I was a scared, vulnerable, escaped patient who listened to voices, where would I hide? Where would I feel safest? Anna was apart of the town church—as a heavy Christian, you would think that would be your safe haven._

Storm stood up, quickly scribbling down the address on the church that was noted on the file, grabbed her jacket and purse and then left the apartment.

.

_' . . . Me and you, and you and me; no matter how they toss the dice, it had to be; the only one for me is you, and you for me; so happy together,' _sang the radio, but Dean mutely turned the knob to silence it.

The soft purr of the Impala's engine came to stop as Dean and Sam parked outside of the beautiful stone church. Through the window, Sam suddenly spotted what seemed to be a figure hurriedly walking up some stairs. He pointed this out to Dean and he nodded, retrieving his silver pistol from the inner pocket of his jacket as the pair exited the car.

Inside the church was dark, cold, and the brothers' footsteps were very pronounced in the building that reeked of apparent vacancy. The magnificent stained windows of holy figures still glimmered even if there was no sun outside to stream through them.

Struggling to adjust to the darkness, Sam brought out his flashlight, its beam trailing over the many empty wooden benches.

"Looked like whoever that person was headed upstairs to the attic," said Dean, glancing at Sam. "Guess they spotted us."

"Anna?" called Sam.

"Yeah, that'll work."

The brothers edged closer to the narrow wooden staircase, Sam continuing to speak, "We're not here to hurt you. We want to help. My name is Sam Winch—"

Somewhere from behind, and it certainly wasn't Dean, finished the sentence for him. "Winchester?"

The brothers swiftly turned, directing the light of their flashlights in the area where the voice had sounded.

"Anna?" Dean said.

The girl didn't flinch as Sam shone the light directly in her face; she appeared to be too busy trying to catch sight of the flashlight holder. She wasn't Anna, and at first Sam wondered how he knew this considered he had never laid eyes on the girl, but he realized it was because he had already met the one that stood before him.

She was frowning, a mix of incredulity and alarm stitched into every feature of her pale face. Sam quickly lowered the flashlight, his heart abruptly hammering hard in his chest.

"Storm?" he breathed.

There was an almost alarming change of appearance for her since had seen her last, or maybe it had just been so long that he had truly forgotten when she looked like. Her most memorable trait of youth was gone. Was it because she didn't open her eyes as much, creating a strange illusion of maturity? He had only seen her in a hospital gown, and the black leather jacket colliding with her now-long strands of white hair left off a more roguish impression. When Sam had met her, her hair had been shoulder length, now it came down to the middle of her breasts and had a sort of layered trim. Her fringe bangs worked the job of shaping her heart-shaped face to appear older. If it wasn't for her trademark hair color, Sam had a feeling he wouldn't have recognized her.

Dean was looking between the two, apparently not sure whether to speak or not. Storm's eyes locked with Sam's who felt like his tongue had been replaced by a wet sponge. She heaved a small, fluttering sigh as if she were about to make a speech in front of a crowd. To Sam's amazement, she smiled.

"Hello, Sam Winchester."

* * *

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter! I love all kinds of feedback, advice, or even questions, so don't hesitate to throw any of them. I would be very happy to hear what you think so far!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. The Secrets of Heaven

_._

_-Three-_

The Secrets of Heaven

Sam's fingers felt as if they were melted into the handle of his flashlight, his knuckles turning slightly numb from the ferocity of his grip. As his eyes flashed skeptically several times over Storm's face, as if doubting her presence at all, his jaw finally released and a short breath shot from his nostrils.

"Storm—I—how are you—why are you here? How did you—" Sam couldn't stop the explosion of inquiries falling from his tongue, but he cut himself off as his brother gave him a narrow look.

"Uh, maybe you want some paper to write your monologue, that why she knows which question to answer first?" said Dean, looking back at Storm with slightly narrowed brows. "So—you're Storm. Nice hair."

Storm looked at the unfamiliar man.

"Thank you. I grew it myself."

Dean appeared unable to make up his mind on whether or not she was joking. In his confusion, he gave an awkward smile that merely looked as though he had a bad toothache.

"How did you find us?" Sam said, marginally recovering himself.

Storm's silence made Sam frown. She was staring at him in confusion and slight wariness and he could tell she was thinking hard on something. He watched as her eyes wavered on the enormous stained window that was to her left, on it was the symbol of the Holy Spirit in the form of a dove. The gleam of the colored glass gave Storm's hair a very vague hint of pink. She met his eyes again. "I was never looking for you," she said at last, quietly. "I've lived in this town for the past three years. What are _you _doing here?"

"Um . . ."

This was too odd. Out of all places, out of all times . . . Sam never expected to see Storm ever again, much less three years later in an old church while on the hunt for a girl who recently broke out of a hospital. He felt a little lightheaded but more in control of himself. He and his brother exchanged the 'What kind of excuse do we give for this one' look.

"What are you doing here, Storm?" he eventually asked.

"Maybe—something to do with why you were at the hospital early this morning, asking about the Anna girl. I thought you were becoming a lawyer, Sam? What made you go down the fed field?"

Sam wasn't sure what to make of Storm's expression; her eyes neither wavered or blinked the entire time she looked at him, and the long-distance familiar feeling of having his privacy prodded by her stare returned. He had forgotten how she did that.

"Hang on, how the hell would you know about that?" said Dean, his eyes narrowed as he took a single step toward Storm whose still gaze shifted from the youngest to oldest.

"As I visited the hospital this morning, my old nurse Jana said two hot FBI agents came asking about Anna, and then about myself, and then I come here to find you in the building I believe her to be in, calling out Anna's name."

A small silence fell, and Sam was sure all of their eyes flickered to the ceiling where the attic was.

"Two hot FBI agents, huh?" said Dean with a small smirk, doing a little sardonic bounce on the balls of his feet. "Well, I'm flattered, sweetheart, but we're on the job right now and we don't really have time for reunions or explanations so it's probably best you stay out of the way while we—"

"Why are you looking for Anna, Storm?" Sam interrupted, earning another look from Dean.

"I'll answer that if you do," she said, a knowing grin spreading along her lips. He knew she knew that neither of the brothers were at leisure to reveal their intentions, so he just nodded his submission.

"Like I said," said Dean with a bite of irritability in his tone, jerking his head up the stairs, "we don't really have time for all this. We got a scared little escaped patient who probably thinks we're all plannin' her death."

"I need to speak with Anna," said Storm.

"Well get in line."

Sam wanted to further question Storm—not just why she had come to be here, her interest in Anna, but just _how _she was. Had she remembered anything? What had she been up to? He wanted to apologize for not talking to her once since they had said goodbye in that hospital, but the seriousness of the situation outweighed his trivial desires. There would be time later—well, hopefully.

"Hey, hang on," said Dean, holding up a hand to stop Storm from walking up the steps. "We're doin' work here. You need to leave. You'll just get in the way."

"Dean—" said Sam quickly, but Storm was already countering back at Dean with slightly raised brows.

"I promise the only thing getting in the way will be my perky boobs, which you can hardly complain about. Excuse me." She looked at Sam, winked, and then continued up the stairs, white hair bobbing about her shoulders.

Sam stood there, torn between exasperation with the situation, and amusement at the look on Dean's face.

"Come on," said Sam in a 'just let it go' voice.

"Sam—"

"I know her, alright?"

"_Knew _her, for what, like a week?"

Sam pretended not to have heard as he followed behind Storm's footsteps until they reached the cluttered attic where another magnificent window was placed at the back of the room. Storm waited for them, looking around and glancing at Sam as he approached her side. He wondered if there was possibly anything she could know about Anna and why there were so many demons out to catch her alive. Something told Sam the reason she was looking for her had nothing to do with wanting to exchange gossip or paint nails together. Curiosity burdened heavy in his chest as he gazed absently at the side of her head, and it took a lot of effort not to allow the billion questions explode from his mouth.

Storm's eyes flickered to the gun that was held in Sam's hand and he hastily stashed it away. "Anna?" he called. An elongated shadow proved someone was hiding behind some stacked boxes. He motioned Dean to lower his gun which he did. "We're not gonna hurt you. We're here to help. My name is Sam. This is my brother, Dean. And, um . . ."

He looked at Storm who smiled wearily back. "I didn't know you had a brother."

Before he could reply, a small voice said, "Sam? Not Sam Winchester?"

"Uh, yeah," said Sam, frowning. A girl emerged, tall, thin, with waves of dark red hair and heavily lidded dark blue eyes which were planted on Dean.

"And you're Dean? _The _Dean?"

Dean looked a little taken aback, but gave an awry smile with a nervous glance at Storm. "Well, yeah. _The _Dean, I guess."

"It really is you. Oh, my _God. _The angels talk about you. You were in Hell, but Castiel dragged you out, and some of them think you can help us. And some of them don't like you at all. They talk about you all the time, lately. I feel like I know you."

There was an extremely long silence in which Storm slowly turned to face Dean who now had her undivided attention. Sam's fingers curled anxiously, he and Dean exchanging a sharp expression and he saw his confusion and apprehension mirror back at him. However, Storm didn't say anything like Sam thought she would, but instead turned back to Anna who was looking at the white-haired girl as if she had only just noticed her.

"You listen to angels?" said Storm.

"I—" Anna was looking at Storm though slightly squinted eyes, as if trying to make out a blurry watercolor. "I know you."

"I don't," said Storm shortly and Anna's gaze quivered.

"Does anyone know what's going on here?" said Dean.

"Storm—" said Sam, but Anna spoke over them, still talking to Storm.

"You can hear them, can't you?" she said quietly.

Storm didn't answer.

"So, um, does this mean there's more than one chick who is tunin' into the angel radio?" said Dean, glancing around the group for some confirmation, looking thoroughly confused.

Sam's brain pulled him back into the sudden memory of driving through that blinding storm, of him leaning forward in his seat and squinting his eyes to see the road and how a flash of lightning revealed what looked like someone falling from the sky. Had that really happened? It was so long ago, it was difficult to recover all the pieces.

Why was Storm here, _now? _And was she honestly listening into the same voices, the same angel voices, as Anna? If so, what did that mean?

"I don't hear anyone that frequently," said Storm, more to herself. "I've haven't heard the name Sam Winchester since three years ago when I met you, and the first time I heard Dean Winchester—"

"September 18th," interrupted Anna.

"Day I got outta Hell," said Dean morosely.

"'Dean Winchester is saved,'" Storm and Anna finished together and Anna added, "Clear as day."

Storm paused, looking over her shoulder at Dean and Sam. "I'm guessing you two aren't cops."

Despite the situation, Sam gave a very weak smile.

"So—the both of you," said Dean, holding up two fingers to the two girls, "have a direct connection to the upstairs crowd, but the ghoulies only know about one of you. Least we know why the demons want you so badly," he added to Anna. "They get a hold you, they can hear everything the other side's cookin'. You're 1-900-Angel."

"Storm, how long has this been going on for you?" Sam asked and she looked at him.

"I don't—remember," she said, her voice distant as she bullied her brain into diving into the last three years in attempt to retrieve the memory, yet trying to recall anything was like trying to hit a TV that had bad reception in attempt to reach a channel. "Not until after I was admitted into the hospital, I think."

"And you still can't remember anything prior to three years ago?'

"No."

"Great," said Dean. "Well, we can—" He cut himself off as another pair of rushed footsteps were heard from the stairs, the next moment Ruby materializing, walking brusquely toward them.

"You got the girl. Good. Let's go." She paused and she and Storm's gazes found each other. Ruby frowned. "Who the hell is she?"

There was something wrong with the way Storm was portraying the stranger's face. First it was normal, but something seemed to be strained beneath the skin of her face and all Storm could do was stare at the brunette with the cold, dark eyes that were planted on her with a hollow expression.

"She's not—" Ruby paused, looking up at Sam who narrowed his eyes. He had the vague suspicion that Ruby was sensing something off Storm, but was in too much of a rush to say anything. "Right, we have to go."

"Her face!" Anna said.

"It's okay; she's here to help," Sam assured her.

"Yeah, don't be so sure," said Dean.

"We've got to hurry," said Ruby.

"What are we hurrying from?" said Storm.

"A demon's coming—big-timer."

"Well, that's pretty convenient," snarled Dean. "Showing up right when we find the girl with some bigwig on your tail?"

"I didn't bring him here; you did."

"What?"

"He followed you here from Anna's house. We got to go now."

"Dean . . ." said Sam slowly, pointing up at an angel statue where blood was pouring from the eyes, as if crying.

"Too late, he's already here," said Ruby.

Out of instinct, Sam grabbed Anna's forearm, looking for a place to hide her, but his eyes fell instead upon Storm's. There was a strange moment, and Sam wasn't sure what the cause of it was, but incredibly spontaneously, Sam had realized with a vague feeling of an anchor settling in his stomach that Storm had definitely changed. He remembered her as the girl with the wide youthful eyes that loved to draw birds and play Uno with him, but hiding in the corners of her dark green eyes were shadows that had not been there before.

"_Sam?" _said Dean anxiously and Sam was knocked out of his thoughts.

He had an idea, but he wasn't sure how he felt suggesting it when he and Storm had only reunited not twenty minutes ago. Amazingly though, she seemed to catch what was on his mind.

"I'll take her," said Storm.

"Can you—are you sure?"

"I don't know exactly what you guys are or what you do, but it sounds to me like you're about to make a standoff. I'm no good at fighting but I can help; I'll get Anna out of here. I'll keep her safe." Storm failed to mention how exactly she was planning on keeping her safe should they come across a demon, but she figured it was better to take their chances with running rather than stay here where there was about to be an attack.

They held eye-contact and Sam wasn't sure why it was so easy to believe her words. Something about the soothing tone she used made him feel as if she had everything under control. His lips pressed together.

"Be careful," he said.

"_You _be careful, Sam Winchester. I can already tell I still like you, so I'd rather you be less dead next time I see you."

She took Anna's hand, grasping it tightly before turning and heading for the fire escape before Sam could familiarize with the youthful simplicity in which she spoke that he had forgotten how much he missed.

.

"Didn't you bring a car?" Anna asked as the girls took a moment to catch their breath once they put some ground between them and the church.

"Took a bus," said Storm, looking up and down the deserted road and casting an anxious look over her shoulder at the attic window of the church. She still grasped Anna's hand which was slightly clammy with sweat, making their hold harder to maintain as they half-jogged down the sidewalk.

Where was a place she could safely hide Anna? Nowhere around here, and as much as she didn't want to leave Sam and the other one to deal what there was to deal with, her current job was to help Anna.

Storm's eyes registered the silhouette of a car parked not too far away. It was a black, older fashioned car and appeared to be empty. The door was unlocked and she indicated for Anna to get in the passenger side. There were no keys but when Storm opened the glove compartment a heap full of cell phones and a pistol fell onto the ground. She picked it up, examining the gleam of silver that reflected in the nearby street lamp. There was no doubt this was the boys' car.

Storm, although having no gun training at all, stashed the gun in her belt loop

"No keys?" Anna said and Storm shook her head, squinting her eyes in the darkness as she leaned forward, examining the area under the steering wheel and seeing how sturdy it was.

"Can you find a Phillips head screwdriver anywhere?" asked Storm.

"You're going to hot wire the car?" Anna questioned skeptically. "Have you done it before?"

"Once. The job is simple enough but I can barely see anything."

As it turned out, in the trunk that was stashed high with weapons that the girls did an extraordinary job of disregarding, they found a toolbox and flashlight. As the seconds ticked by, Storm managed to remove the steering column and was working at the wires as Anna illuminated the area with the flashlight.

"C'mon," Storm murmured as she nudged the two red wires together, her back aching from leaning over for awhile. She closed her eyes briefly, sliding her tongue over the bump of her lower lip. There was a jolt and the sound of an engine roaring to life and Storm's eyes shot open in surprise.

"You got it!" Anna said.

Storm sat up straight in the leather seat. "Seatbelt," she reminded Anna.

Anna stared. "We're being chased by demons."

"All the more reason to be safe," she said, but before she could put the car in 'drive' there was the sound of a window crashing and both of the girls turned just and time to see two figures falling from the attic window and landing hard in the bushes that hugged the church's building. Storm didn't hesitate in making a sharp U-turn toward the two men who were staggering to their feet and looking up as Storm braked before them, rolling down the window.

"You're—" the one called Dean stuttered, hurrying forward and grasping his shoulder, looking up and down at the car, apparently at a loss for words.

"Get in," said Storm.

"Uh-uh, no way!" said Dean and Storm narrowed her eyes. "_What the hell did you do to my car!?"_

"Dean!" said Sam angrily, who was already getting in the backseat.

Dean let out a weak sort of moan before he hurled himself in the backseat and Storm nearly floored it, the tires screeching on the pavement as they took off down the road, running a stop sign or two.

"Watch it!" scathed Dean whose head popped from the backseat. "Who the hell taught you how to drive?"

"No one. I've only driven once before."

Dean went pale. "Oh God."

"I know what I'm doing. Where are we heading?"

"We have to think about something here," said Sam edgily, leaning forward too and looking at Storm's side profile as she made a jerky stop at a red light. "This guy—whoever he was. You called him Alastair?" he asked Dean and Dean nodded with his jaw clenched. "He's going to expect Anna to be with us so we can't guarantee that you'll be completely safe with us. But he doesn't know you, Storm."

"So, we split up like every bad horror movie out there?" Dean said who was feeling very edgy being behind the driver's seat opposed to in it.

"Alastair could be following us now, Dean." He turned to Storm who was chewing on her bottom lip, frowning at the open road with her fingers drumming softly on the thin steering wheel.

"I have an apartment on the south side of the city that Anna and I can go to 'till the storm clears," said Storm.

"You must have a lot of fun making puns with your name," grumbled Dean.

"I do."

.

"You don't remember anything ever strange happening to you in your childhood?" Storm asked Anna as she handed her a steaming mug of green tea before sitting beside her on the couch in Storm's living room.

"My childhood was normal," said Anna, bringing the mug to her lips but not drinking. She frowned at Storm. "I just—I swear I know you."

"I can't say the same. I've never seen your face before."

"No, it's not like we've met before—at least I don't think so. But how would you know if you can't remember anything before three years ago?"

"I wouldn't," said Storm, drinking deeply from her tea which burned the roof of her mouth, but she was too impatient to let it cool down.

"I've never heard the name Storm before—up there, I mean."

"I don't know why the angels would be talking about me, and in any case, the name was given to me. No idea who I was before. No one ever answered to the pictures the hospital sent out of me."

"So you were stuck in a mental hospital for three years?"

"Two years. Once I had a knack for independence and could prove I could handle a job, schoolwork, and paying bills they decided to let me go and lead my own life." Storm leaned back with her head on the arm of the couch, balancing the hot mug on her stomach.

"But you hear voices? Angel voices?"

"Not a lot."

"What made you decide that you weren't just crazy and they were really angels?"

"For the same reason you did, I guess."

Anna fell silent. Evidently just for something to do, she at last took a sip from her tea. She glanced around the walls where all the sketchings were hung. "You draw?"

"I used to," said Storm, feeling like she was sounding too morose and her lips curved upward in a forced smile.

"They're nice. You like birds?"

"I do."

Another pause. "What should we do until they give the word?" Anna asked.

"Sam said he would call us when he has a plan. Until then, it's pretty late. Do you sleep?" Storm only asked this strange inquiry because she herself only slept a few hours a night, and seeing as she and Anna had quite a few similarities, she wasn't sure what to expect.

Anna frowned, giving a hesitant nod.

"You can sleep in my bed if you want. I'll take the couch. Or I have an old deck of Uno cards if you want to play."

There was a quick occurrence of knocks on the door and both of the girls looked up. Setting her mug of tea aside, Storm got to her feet and approached the door, Anna right behind her. She glimpsed in the peephole, hesitating with her fingers on the cold doorknob. She opened the door and the brunette from earlier strode in.

"Good to see you two haven't been obliterated," she said.

"I've been getting better at it," said Storm. "Who're you?"

"Friend of Dean and Sam," said the girl. "Name is Ruby. Look, we can get friendly once we get out of the open where you're ringing the dinner bell for demons. The guys are waiting for us at a safe house in the woods."

It was happening again; the girl's face looked to be disfiguring, but the next moment it was quite normal. Anna on the other hand, was looking at Ruby with wide eyes though was keeping quiet.

Ruby appeared to have sensed Storm's hesitance.

"Look, I don't know who you are or how you got into the picture—I don't even know _what _you are—but somehow you're involved now and your life is in just as much danger as Anna here if we don't get moving. You hear me?"

"I hear you."

"I think it's okay, Storm," said Anna.

"Great," said Ruby sarcastically. "We shouldn't make the brothers wait any longer."

.

Dean was pacing back and forth as Sam sat on the couch with his arms folded in his lap, watching his brother tentatively.

"Shoulda gone with her," said Dean.

"Look, Dean, I told you; Ruby saved my life. We can trust her. They'll be here soon."

"Okay, yeah, she saved your life—after screwin' and manipulating you. Guess I'll just friggin' bite my breath then." Dean stopped pacing, folding his arms over his chest and frowning into the corner of the room. "Do you think it's a little weird this Storm girl comin' in all of a sudden, just happening to hear the same voices as Anna?"

"It's weird, definitely," Sam nodded, "But Storm's not any danger to us, Dean. I don't think she could be if she wanted to."

"Wonder why the demons know about Anna and not her?"

"I don't know. She's definitely kept more of a low profile, and she says she doesn't hear voices very often."

"Hearin' voices," said Dean with a small chuckle, shaking his head slightly. "You know, just _once _I'd like a case that has somethin' to do with fluffy bunnies or walkin' old ladies across the street."

Sam grinned a little. "You don't mean that, do you?"

"Not one bit."

The door opened and the three girls walked in.

"Don't think we were followed, but better to be on our guard just in case," said Ruby as Anna shut the door behind them.

"Glad you could make it," said Dean.

"Anna, Storm—are you both okay?" asked Sam.

"Okay and ready to rumble," said Storm. They locked gazes and for what felt like the hundredth time, Sam stared at her as if not quite sure to believe she was really standing in front of him. It was hard to tell how he felt about it. Happy, he supposed, but he wished it was under better circumstances. He wondered if she was angry with him at all for failing to contact her.

"I think I'm alright, too," said Anna leisurely, her voice breaking Sam and Storm's gaze. She looked at Ruby. "Ruby's not like other demons. Thank you for helping us."

"Yeah, I hear she's been doin' that a lot lately," said Dean slowly. "I guess I . . . you know."

Ruby raised her eyebrows at him. "What?"

"I guess I owe you . . . for Sam, and I just wanted . . . you know . . ."

"Don't strain yourself."

"Okay then. Is the moment over?" Ruby nodded. "Good, 'cause that was awkward."

"Sam," said Anna, "do you think it's be safe for me to make a quick call? My parents must be freaked."

Sam and Dean looked at each other with the same darkened expression. It was hours ago before heading to the church when they had gone to Anna's house only to find both Mr. and Mrs. Milton lying dead on the kitchen floor. Sam wet his lips.

"Uh . . ."

"What?" said Anna.

"Anna, um . . . your parents . . ."

Anna's eyes flashed. "What about them?"

"Look, I'm sorry . . ."

"No, they're—they're not . . ."

"Anna, I'm sorry."

"Why is this happening to me?"

"I don't know," replied Sam hopelessly.

Anna collapsed more than sat back on the couch, her head bowed for a moment as she pressed her thumb into her forehead. Storm watched her closely with narrowed eyes, her arms folded. She wished there was a way for her to have an idea what she must have been going through, but she had never had any parents, none that she remembered anyway, to lose. She wasn't sure whether to feel grateful for that or not.

The silence scratching at the walls of her ears, Storm met Sam's eyes again briefly before letting her arms fall to her sides and silently walking past the group to enter the other room. Storm didn't know whether she was asking him to follow her or not. Regardless, his heavy footsteps indicated that he wasn't far behind. She found a heavy wooden cart to sit on, her knees touching as she looked up at him.

"Hi," she said.

"Hey," he said tentatively. He paused, finally letting the three words he had been bursting to say drop from his mouth, "How are you?"

She sat up straighter. "Ready to rumble," she repeated.

"I guess I mean how have you been?"

"Not much goes on in a mental hospital, Sam, but the bottom line is—fine. I've been fine." Sam didn't miss the pause between the two words, but he glanced down, not sure he wanted to pry. She shifted a little on the cart, smiling a little as her gaze wandered the shadows of the room. "Your eyes tell me differently, Sam Winchester. You've changed much since I saw you in the hospital."

"Well, a lot of things happened since then."

"You never became a lawyer, then." She was half-joking.

"No, uh, guess it was just never meant to be." Sam leaned against the wall but didn't take his eyes off her.

"How is Jess?"

Storm could tell at once that she had asked a sore-point question. His gaze wavered, almost breaking but still maintaining to hold hers. He breathed in, wetting his lips again and exhaling slowly.

"She, uh . . . she's—" Sam forced his next breath to release the terrible weight of his next words. "She's dead."

Storm was quiet. She was on the brink of asking how, but she wasn't sure if she wanted to know. More so, she wanted much less for Sam to have to tell her. She just asked, "When?"

"Two weeks after I found you, actually."

A stone weighed heavy in Storm's gut. "I liked her."

Sam looked up again, a small, sad smile on his face. "Yeah, I know. She liked you, too."

"Way back when, I drew a picture for her, but I forgot to give it to you. I still remember the one I made you." Storm chuckled in a solemn sort of way.

Sam thought of the folded picture that sat in his breast pocket at this very moment, but for some reason he did not reveal that he still had it. "You still draw?"

"Sometimes," she said with a coy smile. "Still not the best at it, but it keeps me sane."

Sam dimly returned the smile, but it flickered. His gaze wandered to the living room where Anna was still sitting on the couch. Her head had resurfaced from its bowed state and she looked calm, but at the same time mortified. He looked back at Storm.

"Look, I'm sorry that you're suddenly involved in all of this. It's our fault."

"I would have been involved whether you were there or not, s'long as I walked up those stairs in the church I would have been involved. You being here is a good thing because I would have no idea how to kill a demon. Is that what you do as a professionalism? Kill demons?"

Sam chuckled, pulling a chair beside her and sitting on it, slightly bent over with his hands together. "You could say that."

"A demon attacked me one time, in the back of an alleyway by the hospital."

"What—?" said Sam, a little taken aback by this sudden slab of information. Did that mean at one point the demons _had _been looking for Storm? "What did you do?"

Sam wasn't expecting an elongated silence from Storm but as she met his eyes, she shook her head gently. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"He cornered me and when he came closer he just—blew up."

Another pause. "Blew up?"

"I remember there were lights flickering, the wind was blowing hard, and right before he grabbed me there was this surge in my body and next thing I know the alley walls were painted in demon guts."

Sam's mouth opened, but he was at a loss. "Guess we'll—have to look into that."

"It's never happened before or after that. I have no idea what it was." She sighed, head tilted back slightly as she gazed at the ceiling, her eyelashes fluttering slightly as she blinked slowly. "I can't exactly say that I was ever expecting to see you again, Sam Winchester—but now that I have, it does feel like all along I knew our paths would cross again, just like I'd hoped they would."

Once again, they found each other's eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't contact you when I said I would. A lot—" he coughed, "a _lot _of stuff happened."

Storm smiled at him, and Sam remembered how her expression transitioned when that happened; the apples of her cheeks became more pronounced, crinkling her green eyes so that a twinkle swam through them. Overall, it just made her look so pretty.

"Stuff. I understand 'stuff'," said said, her nose crinkling. "I don't want you to explain everything now, I can just hope that I'm going to stick around long enough in your life for you to tell me what this stuff is. I want to hear everything."

The corners of Sam's lips twitched uncertainly as Storm got to her feet. _'I hope I'm in your life long enough for you to tell me'. _She made it sound as if she wanted to stick around, and Sam felt a little foolish at how cheerful this made him feel, but not nearly as cheerful as when she leaned forward and gave him a long, close hug that took him slightly by surprise.

Her cheek brushed his, her hair tickling the crook of his neck and he heard the smile in her voice as she spoke next, "I'm glad I got to see you again, Sam Winchester. I meant what I said when I said I would miss you."

And she kissed him on the cheek in the same exact spot she had when they had said goodbye three years previously.

She withdrew, still smiling before standing up straight and turning slowly away from him to return to the living room with the others. Sam sat there for a moment, the tips of his fingers absently touching the spot on his face where her mouth had just been. He lowered his hand, getting to his feet and following Storm.

Dean raised his eyebrows at his younger brother who pretended not to have seen but looked around at the group. He opened his mouth to ask what was next on the agenda, but very suddenly Anna's head snapped up like a fox sensing the hound.

She barely breathed the next words, "They're coming."

Everyone looked at her, Storm's lips parting as the ambiance of the room was suddenly in uproar.

"Back room," said Dean firmly, nodding at Anna. Wind shook the door and Sam was suddenly heeding to Anna again, ushering her into the other room.

"Storm, you should go with her," he told her quickly.

Storm paused, eyes flickering toward the door. She didn't think much of hiding, but whatever was about to burst through the doors she knew she could offer little aid. With her lips pursed, she gave a grudging nod and followed after Anna.

"Get in the closet," she told her.

"I—what about you?"

Storm didn't reply, but listened in to the others.

"Where's the knife?" Ruby directed at Dean.

"Yeah . . . about that . . ." They had lost the knife when Sam had stabbed Alastair with it.

"You're kidding."

"Hey, don't look at me," he said, looking at Sam.

"Thanks a lot," Sam said irritably.

"Great. Just peachy. Impeccable timing, guys, really."

The door rattled so fiercely Sam thought the doorknob was going to fly off at any moment. However, before that could happen the door burst violently open. Storm had her back pressed against the wall just as she heard the click of Anna closing the closet door. Her chest was tight as she peered around the corner, seeing two figures walking past the threshold, neither of them she knew.

Both tall, but lacking any similar physical qualities. The one on the right was slightly shorter with tousled black hair and wearing what looked like an ankle-length tan trenchcoat. She could not see his face over the bulk of Dean's shoulder, but the other was bald and dark-skinned, surveying the group with a cool smile.

It felt like electricity was fizzing heavily in Storm's fingertips as she stared at them, somehow knowing at once that they were not demons. Her tongue went dry as she withdrew her face a few inches, looking at the dusty floorboards as she listened in.

"Please tell me you're here to help," said Dean. "We've been having demon issues all day."

"Well I can see that," said one of the two strangers, and Storm imagined it was the one with the cool eyes talking because his cold voice was the one that could equate to it.

"We're here for Anna," the other said in a hoarse, throaty voice that made the hairs on Storm's head nearly depart with her scalp. It wasn't _his _voice exactly that sounded so familiar; she had never heard it before, but the person who spoke with it.

Storm had chanced another glimpse around the corner but Dean was still in the way of the trenchcoated man.

"Here for her like . . . here for her?" said Dean.

"Stop talking. Give her to us," said the other, folding his hands over the wrinkle-less front of his neatly pressed business suit.

"Are you gonna help her?" asked Sam, slightly breathless.

Trenchcoat moved forward, but still Storm was only able to make out half his face. He looked at all of them as he said, "No, she has to die."

Storm remained rooted to the spot, her nails digging so fiercely against the wooden wall that one of them broke.

Sam sounded incredulous as he said, "You want Anna? Why?"

"Out of the way," the taller of the two ordered firmly, taking a step forward, but Dean held up his hands.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Okay, I know she's wiretrapping your angel charts or whatever, but that's no reason to gank her."

"Don't worry; I'll kill her gently."

"You're some heartless sons of bitches, you know that, right?"

"As a matter of fact, we are," said Trenchcoat. "And?"

"And? She's an innocent girl!" said Sam.

"She is far from innocent."

"Whats that supposed to mean?"

"It means she's worse than this abomination that you've been screwing," said the taller, indicating Ruby. "Now give us . . ." but he paused, his eyes suddenly planting on the wall that Storm hid behind as though he could suddenly see her. "What else have you got hidden back there?"

No one said anything.

"They have something back there, Castiel," he continued darkly and Storm stood up as slowly as her spine would permit, glancing very carefully over her shoulder at the closet that was still closed. "More than one person. I can sense it. I can smell it."

"Keep your dirty nose out of other people's business," warned Dean.

"Castiel—something very interesting is going on. I think the Winchesters have more than one dirty secret. Who else are you hiding?"

"No one," said Sam.

"It's not like you two can stop us from finding out." Ruby's body suddenly flew through the air and hit the wall hard and Dean attacked Uriel.

"Cas," pleaded Sam, "stop this. Please."

But as the angel's fingers came in touch with Sam's forehead, consciousness drained from him and he fell hard onto the floor.

Storm could no longer stand idly by. She stood up straighter, glancing once more around the wall just in time to see the dark-skinned man throw a very powerful punch to Dean's face. She saw Sam lying on the floor unconscious and her angry eyes lifted to the two angels.

The lights began to flicker and this little action caused a pause in the heat of the battle. Storm's face screwed up in a mingle of triumph and confusion, up until the bulb in the lamp exploded and darkness fell in the room.

"What is this?" said Uriel, his clenched fist falling to his side. Dean rubbed his sore jaw, scrambling to his feet and not quite glancing behind him at Storm, but his eyes definitely wavered in her direction.

"Uriel," the one called Castiel said in a very low tone, his body quite still as the angel's eyes scanned the darkness. "Do you recognize it?"

"I'm not sure. How could it be with the Winchesters? There was no saying where it would have fallen, but the possibility of it being in this dimension was judged against."

"What the hell are you two goin' on about?" Dean growled.

"Only one way to find out," said Uriel, lifting a hand as if about to choke someone. The wall beside Storm collapsed as easy if it were sand. She bolted out of the way, but her ankle hit a chair. She nearly stumbled, but caught her balance before hitting the floor. The dust of the collapsed wall was thick and stung Storm's lungs as she breathed in heavily, blinking to aid her watering eyes.

As the dust dispersed, the first pair of eyes that were to meet Storm's were of bright blue, both crinkled under the severity of the angel's frown. Storm felt as if a tornado was going through the room though everything was quite still. It was as though Castiel's eyes had sucked every potential breath she could inhale, but she remained quite immobile.

"Castiel," said Uriel slowly and Storm didn't like that grin that was spreading along his lips. "You Winchesters just _have _to be involved in everything, don't you?" He let out a bark of mad, tirumphant laughter.

Storm couldn't hear her thoughts, much less listen to whatever this other angel was saying. For a moment, Storm had forgotten she was in a standoff of her life, forgot that she was in a dingy cabin in the middle of the woods, and just plain out forgot that she even had legs that supported her numb body.

Flickering like a bad reception, for a moment she saw herself—from Castiel's perspective?—Storm standing there with her white hair tossed about wildly and eyes wide as they fixed on the angel.

There was a vision of a wide, green grassy field and the sound of tweeting, the feeling of just drinking down ice-cold water, but then it was gone and Storm returned to her body.

"Castiel," she said at last.

A curtain of unfathomable uncertainty fell over the angel's face. When his lips opened, he only said half a word, "Athed—" before there was a a light like white lightning that both angels were engulfed in and Storm blinked. Castiel and Uriel were gone.

"What the . . . ?" said Dean, looking from Storm to behind her where Anna was standing with her forearms drenched in her own blood. "Anna? Anna!"

Storm saw that she had drawn sigils in a mirror with her own blood, and without knowing how she knew it, Storm knew that this was the reason the angels had been forced out.

"Are they—are they gone?" said Anna weakly.

Storm's knees felt weak but she swallowed, forcing herself to walk back into the living room and allow Dean to tend to Anna. Her eyes fell on Ruby who was was sitting beside Sam who was stirring.

"You want to tell us what the hell just happened?" she demanded of Storm. "You attacked the light bulbs and then was completely absent for a few seconds there."

Storm had never felt so exhausted. Her eyes swept quickly over Sam, doing a quick search for any injuries, but his eyes were flickering open. Her face was the first thing his gaze found.

"What happened?" he asked her gruffly, sitting up straight and rubbing the side of his hip which had taken most of his fall.

Storm stood there, eyes casting upward to the ceiling, shaking her head mutely. Her pained legs begged her to sit down, but she felt if she rested for a second she might lose consciousness and she was doing everything to try and recollect what had just happened.

What she had seen, a grassy field of sorts and birds surrounding her as if she was in the eye of a hurricane—whatever it was, there was a sharp, cold, solid feeling in Storm's gut that this was a memory, and something about meeting the blue-eyes of that angel allowed her to see it.

* * *

**I really hope this chapter wasn't too long but unfortunately I have a bad habit of not being able to stop writing something once I'm on a roll.**

**I would love to hear what you think of Storm so far, the plot, if you have any predictions, or just anything else. It would be much appreciated :]**

**I hope you all are having a great summer, if you're out yet, and thanks so much for reading! Also, sorry for the bunch of errors seeing as I terrible at editing.**


	4. Dirty Birds Aren't Allowed Recollection

_._

_-Four-_

Dirty Birds Aren't Allowed Recollection

Storm grimaced in response to the pain, raising her bleeding index finger eye-level, watching the small dot of scarlet substance slip out from the thin, tiny wound. She glanced down at the piece of paper that had committed the crime, watching the drop of blood fall heavily down from the tip of her finger onto the paper. She surveyed the page absorbing the blood, the explosion of red against the contrast of white spreading like veins.

Storm curled her legs against her body as she sat on the moth-eaten couch, punching the pillow that she leaned back on which emitted a soft cloud of dust. As she sucked her bleeding finger, she gazed around at the piles of yellowing papers and leather-bound books which were giving off a vague musty odor which was oddly reminded Storm of home. Along the wall were several different home phones all with different tape labels, such as FED Marshall, FBI, CDC, Police, and Health Debt. Whoever the man was that lived here, Bobby, was certainly no kindly old uncle who watched football on TV or had evening barbeque's every Friday.

The lights were dim but she was still able to make out the heading on the page of the open book that sat on her lap. The droplet of blood that had almost completely sunk in the paper now was very close to the calligraphic 'C' of the name 'Castiel'. Beneath it was a list and brief history that was all very biblical and didn't sate the thirst of knowledge Storm had for the angel. He was the angel of Thursday, understanding, temperance, new changes, and travel which of course did nothing in explaining the strange moment they had shared when meeting eye-contact.

It wasn't particularly as if she had ever met him before,(at least she didn't think so)but who could she have been prior three years ago to be important enough to be involved with angels? She hadn't forgotten the flashing vision of that field with a taste of serenity that filled her up like drink, which was just as familiar as Castiel, though in completely different ways. The field felt as if it was a piece of whatever life she used to live, as for Castiel—well, there wasn't enough to go on to be sure, but in some odd way she knew him before. Again, not as if they had ever talked, but more so . . . more so . . .

Storm was at a loss.

Her whole hand was planted over her forehead in attempt to harness the migraine-ish headache that had been on and off ever since they left Ruby's safe house nearly twelve hours ago. She couldn't 'hear' anything, but it felt as if someone was driving a drill between her eyebrows, making reading anymore on Castiel all but impossible.

There was a creak of footsteps on the basement stairs and a distraction materialized in the shape of Sam, shuffling through several papers in his hand and glancing from them to look at Storm who had sat up a little straighter.

"Hey," he said. "Feeling anymore awake?"

She had slept the entire drive here in the back of the Impala up until she was being prodded awake by Sam who had smiled a little and pointed out the small dribble of drool on the side of her mouth.

"Yes, I am, thank you. How's Anna?"

"In Bobby's panic room downstairs with Dean, but I think she's okay. Still a little shaken up about her parents, but that's understandable. The walls are drenched in salt so no demon is getting to her."

"Has she been able to explain how she knew those symbols would take care of the angels?"

"No, she said she just—knew," he said with a small shrug. He pursed his lips, eyes scanning over Storm's face with apparent worry stitching onto his expression. "You look a little pale." He moved forward, raising his hand but hesitating the moment he made a gesture as if to raise it to her forehead. She didn't move or say anything, but she didn't drop their gaze either and he took this as an 'okay' to proceed. His hand swept aside her bangs, resting gently on her forehead. He withdrew suddenly. "A little warm."

"I haven't had anything but green tea and Cheetos in the past few twenty-four hours," she admitted with a timid smile. Sam raised his eyebrows a little with a distracted chuckle.

"Oh, well, uh, I'm sure Bobby has something," he said timidly, straightening his spine self-consciously.

"Where's this Bobby?" Storm asked as she got to her feet, her stance more solid seeing as her knees weren't as shaky anymore.

"Not sure, actually. Dean's on the phone with him now. I wanted to go over these papers with him," he said, throwing the file onto the table with a slight nod down at it. Storm recognized it as the one she had taken from the hospital at which she had given to the brothers in attempt to help them with researching Anna.

He opened the fridge and squinted down at all the contents, as if hoping leftover food would miraculously appear so as to avoid cooking. The easiest thing he could find was eggs and bacon which he held up for Storm's examination, mutely asking for approval.

"Sure," she nodded.

"So you're not a vegetarian?" he asked.

"Nope."

He nodded absently, turning on the stove as he heard Storm sit down at the table, a sound occurring as if she were drumming her nails on the surface of it. As he poured an overdose of olive oil into the pan that still had residue of cooked eggs, she asked, "What else did her file say?"

"Nothing light," he said with a small glance at her over his shoulder. "Um, when she was about—two and a half she got freaked out whenever her dad came close, said something along the lines that he wasn't her real father and that he was going to kill her."

He imagined Storm's eyebrows were raised when she spoke next, "That's—pretty extreme for only being two."

Sam flinched back his hand as a droplet of boiling oil flew out of the pan and attacked him. As he sucked his thumb, he didn't realize Storm had gotten out of her chair to stand beside him, staring down into the pan.

"Well, she saw a kid's shrink and after that, she grew up normally," he explained with a slight shrug.

"Sam Winchester, do you know how to cook?"

His lips tugged upward in a guilty smile as he looked at her. "Uh, I'm trying to act like I can. Is it working?"

"The eggs are burning."

Sam looked down into the pan. Indeed, thick tendrils of smoke were rising from the mess of easy over eggs, the broken yolks bubbling softly in the pile of fizzing oil. When he tried to chisel them out with the spatula, they stubbornly stuck to the surface of the pan, despite the generous amount of oil.

"Uh, sorry. I kind of live on a daily diet of diner food. My culinary skills aren't up to boot," said Sam.

Murmuring swearwords darkly under his breath, he at last gathered the eggs onto a saucer and looked down at them in defeat as he faced Storm who was grinning ear to ear.

"Well, uh, they _started _as over easy. I hope you like scrambled dosed in about a cup of olive oil."

"My favorite."

"No, really you don't have to eat it. They'll probably do more bad to you than good."

"Gimme. I'm preparing my stomach for Sam Winchester's Specially Made Eggs."

Sam did little to fight his grin. "Alright. Let me at least cook the bacon first."

He was a little more fortunate when it came to cooking the bacon, perhaps because he had followed Storm's advice in turning down the temperature. As they sat down at the table, he watched doubtfully as she stabbed the burnt eggs into her mouth, her expression thoughtful as she chewed slowly.

"So, tell me; do they suck?" he said, leaning back in his chair with a light chuckle.

"Y'know," she said, pointing her fork importantly at him, "the cup of olive oil I just ingested almost gives it a very nature-y effect on my taste buds. I can taste the olives on the vines they were picked from."

Sam actually burst out laughing. "Right. Okay. You should definitely give me a 'Chef of the Year' award." He eyed her skeptically as she took another bite. "Seriously, though."

"Seriously, though; they are really bad."

He chuckled softly again but before he could say anything Dean entered the kitchen, snapping his cell phone shut and sniffing the air hopefully.

"Hey, dude," said Sam, gathering the papers in his hands again, "where's Bobby?"

"Uh, the Dominican," he said, eying the bacon that Storm had not yet touched and only granting Sam half a glance. "He says we break anything, we buy it. Hey," he added to Storm, and she didn't miss the lowered tone he used on her. Evidently he had not completely forgiven her for hot wiring the Impala.

"Hi," she said.

"If I could just . . . ?" He was making timid movements toward her plate and nodding down at her food with what he evidently assumed to be a charming smile and Sam rolled his eyes.

"No. This was made specially for me," said Storm, inching her plate away from Dean who's face fell, apparently not expecting the rejection. Sam contained a laugh behind his fingers but automatically straightened his expression as his brother looked at him.

"So he's working a case?" Sam asked airily.

"God, I hope so. Otherwise he's at hedonism in a banana hammock and a trucker cap," said Dean.

Sam stared up at him, grimacing. "Now that's seared into my brain."

"I want to meet this Bobby," said Storm who, amazingly, had finished the entire meal with a smile.

"He'd sure have a hay-day makin' fun of you for your hair and that your name is Storm," said Dean, and then directing at Sam, "So find anythin' new about Anna?"

Sam explained everything he had just said to Storm and Dean basically had the same reaction.

"Alright—so everythin' was normal up until now," said Dean who was now leaning his elbows on the back of one of the dining room chairs. "So what's she hiding?"

"Why don't you just ask me to my face?"

Ruby and Anna had joined the others in the kitchen. Dean shifted on an irritable expression, saying to Ruby, "Nice job watchin' her."

"I'm watching her."

Sam's fingers folded the corners of Anna's file, his eyes unintentionally wavering in Storm's general area, but he made himself look at Anna. "No, you're right, Anna. Is there anything you want to tell us?"

"About what?"

"Well, the angels said you were guilty of something. Why would they say that?"

Anna pulled one of the table chairs toward her, leaning the flat of her palms on the back of it while staring down at Sam defiantly. "You tell me. Tell me why my life has been leveled—why my parents are dead. I don't know, I swear. I would give anything to know."

"Okay then," said Sam after a short pause, meeting Dean's eye. "Then let's find out."

"How?" she said.

"Pamela. She's, uh, sort of a psychic that we know."

"So we have her swing the wonky pendulum and hopefully that'll get you to remember?" said Dean, standing up straighter. His eyes were on Storm. "This could go both ways."

"Hypnosis never worked on me," said Storm. "I just ended up having seizures and one bad headache."

"Okay, yeah, but that was done by the white-coat doctors who didn't major specifically in black mojo," countered Dean. "And I don't mean to state the obvious or anything, but, uh . . . Castiel and Uri seemed to take an interest in you. Think you might be willing to try and figure out why that is?"

"Keyword: try," said Storm. "Yes, I'll try. I'll do anything I can to remember who or what I was before."

"Alright," said Sam after a short pause, bringing out his phone. "I'll make the call."

.

Storm had never met a psychic before, but the way this particular one entered the threshold made it seem as though she owned the place. The black sunglasses indicated her poor sight and Dean was leading her by the arm and into the basement where the others were waiting.

"We're here!" Dean called.

"Pamela, hey!" said Sam as the two reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Sam?" said Pamela. "Sam is that you?"

"Right here."

"Oh. Know how I can tell?" Storm's eyebrows shot upward in unadulterated amusement as Pamela suddenly groped Sam's rear. "This perky little ass of yours. Could bounce a nickel off that thing. Of course I know it's you, grumpy. Same way I know that's a demon," she nodded at Ruby, "and that poor girl's Anna, and that you've been eying my rack."

"Uh . . ."

Sam made an embarrassed fidgeting motion along with an airy chuckle that did not quite disguise the small flush in his face as he glanced at Storm who was doing nothing to conceal her face-splitting grin.

"I like her," said Storm.

Pamela's head tilted in her direction, her smile suffering to some degree.

"Are you sick?" she asked.

Storm considered the woman. "No."

"Terminal illnesses, anything like that?"

"Nothing but memory loss."

"No, your energy field is way off, like trying to fit a square into a circle. Who are you, kid?"

"Storm."

"Yeah, you're the one Dean told me about on the way here. White-haired, doll-like, amnesiac girl."

"Your Native American name," put in Dean.

Storm couldn't shake off the feeling that Pamela was uncomfortable around her.

"We'll be doing some work together," she told Storm, and then turned to Anna, "Anna, how are you doing, sweetie? I'm Pamela."

"Hi," said Anna nervously.

"Dean told me what's goin' on and I'm excited to help."

"Oh, well, that's nice of you."

"Not really. Any chance I can dick over an angel, I'm taking it."

"Why?"

"They stole something from me." Pamela removed the sunglasses where the misty white orbs that were her eyes still managed to have some friendly crinkle as she smiled. "Demon-y, I know, but they're just plastic. Good for business. Makes me look extra-psychic, don't you think? Now, how about you tell me what your deal is, hmm? Don't you worry. But, listen," she added to Storm's general direction, "I don't like the vibe I'm getting from you—I feel like I could flick my finger at you and your soul'll be ripped from your body, so I don't feel comfortable meddling with your head with hypnosis. Hope you don't take offense."

"I don't."

They soon transcended upstairs into the living room where Anna assumed a laying position on the couch Storm was sitting at earlier. Pamela started with counting down from five, telling Anna she was going to enter a very deep sleep.

"Your father—what's his name?" Pamela asked in a soothing tone, as if she were speaking to an infant on the brink of sleep.

"Rick Milton."

Storm watched Anna's eyes rolling behind her heavy eyelids.

"Alright, but I want you to look further back—when you were very young. Just a couple years old."

"I don't want to."

"It'll be okay, Anna. Just one look—that's all we need."

"No."

The silent tone in which she spoke sounded as dangerous as someone reloading a shotgun. Storm was uneasy, aware of the vague flicker of the lamp to her right.

"What's your dad's name? Your real dad? Why is he angry with you?"

"No!" Anna screamed in a way that suggested she didn't have enough air in her lungs. She choked out the next few 'no's' in the same strangled cries, "No, no, _no!"_

The atmosphere in the room had risen to a panic as Anna's chest lurched forward as if she was about to have some kind of fit.

"Anna, calm down. No!" Pamela suddenly added to Dean who moved to run by her side to calm her down, but was thrown across the room by what seemed by an invisible slingshot.

Storm, who had been in the crossfire of Dean's body, accepted the elder brother's helping hand and he brought her to her feet.

Sam was in a confusion on who to ask who was alright; Storm and Dean, or Anna who was still screaming, "_He's gonna kill me!_"

"Wake, Anna," Pamela ordered firmly. "Wake in one, two, three, four, five . . ." There was a silence in which Anna's eyes shot open, showing no sign that she had just been screaming for what seemed her life. She lifted herself into an upright sitting position as the others surrounded her with baited breath. "Anna . . . Anna, you alright?" Pamela asked.

"Thank you, Pamela. I remember now."

"Remember what?" said Sam.

"Who I am."

Dean, who was wearing an intense frown, said to her with a little jerk of his head, "I'll bite. Who are you?"

"I'm an angel."

Storm didn't expect it, but she felt more than one pair of eyes on her, as if she had been the one to say the words. It took a minute for Anna's statement to penetrate Storm's expression and when it did, all she could manage was for her two eyebrows to deepen into a frown.

"An angel," she repeated, but not questioningly, moreover that she was echoing the truth of her words.

"Don't be afraid," said Anna, getting to her feet and meeting Storm's eyes directly, as if the reassurance was intended mostly for her. "I'm not like the others."

"I don't find that very reassuring," said Ruby who had doidled back in the living room doorway.

"Neither do I," said Pamela, reaching her hand vaguely in the air in search for Dean who helped her to her feet.

Storm was only partly listening; Anna was still looking at her with a searching look, and she wasn't sure if the uncertainty in her face made her feel better or not. Sam noticed the moment between the two.

"Anna . . . you said before that you felt like you knew Storm, and well, you kinda both have your ears directed heavenward . . . could Storm . . . ?"

The question was vague, hanging lighter than snow in the air, and yet it made the rock of confirmation drop so heavily into Storm's chest that her gaze fell from the weight of it. Storm examined her fingertips where her thin nails were longer than others on some fingers, to a simple silver ring with a green stone embedded in it on her middle finger. She had gotten the thing at a dusty gift shop that was two blocks from her apartment. The fat man behind the counter with the missing-toothed smile had taken favor to her and offered her the little ring from his own collection for only three-fifty.

Storm didn't know why she was thinking of this now, and suddenly felt a little foolish.

When she felt brave enough to lift her head again, there was not one eye that wasn't on either her or Anna. Storm was looking at Dean for some reason, maybe because she was unsure of where his priorities lie. She could at least trust that fact that Sam would not pull a gun to her head even if somehow Anna eventually confirmed his obscure question. But Dean looked as uncertain as she felt, his hand suspended just over his mouth until he wiped it down and shook his head to no one in particular.

"No," said Anna eventually, and the one word was like ripping the yellow ribbon at the end of a tiresome, intense race. Storm hardly moved, but her lips parted to take in the breath that stung her dried lips, yet Anna spoke over her, "No, you're not an angel."

Anna's answer only did more to add to the whirlpool of uncertainty that swam through Storm's head, but again before she could say anything, Sam said, "You don't know what?"

"I have no idea. I can remember and place every angel's face out there, and you're not one of them. I can't tell if you're human."

_I can't tell if you're human. _The only thing this sentence suggested to Storm was the possibility of her being _not _human, and if she was not human or angel, what was she?

She had never been so infuriated with her amnesia, never so angry that her mind didn't work as the others did and couldn't just think back to even confirm her own species. Was there anything truly over the past three years that had indicated the blood in her veins wasn't human, though? Aside from hearing voices, her odd sleeping pattern and—and making a man explode in the back of an alleyway . . .

Storm lost her own mental argument.

"I don't think Pamela's hypnosis will work any better on you, though," Anna continued but succeeded little in taking Storm away from her thoughts. "You have this—wall that blocks out everything, even familiarity with small things. You could have been any person before."

Storm didn't ask how she knew this, perhaps because she herself already knew it. She was wondering whether or not she would have preferred Anna to tell her that she _was _an angel; it would have been better than this dark abyss of precariousness that settled within her. There was only one thing she cared about now, whether or not she didn't like what she would find; to remember.

"Okay, but putting all this aside," said Dean to Anna, slicing through the icy silence that seemed to exist only for Storm, "you seemed to be on first tabs with Castiel and Uriel. You know them?"

"We were sorta in the same foxhole," answered Anna, at last taking her probing eyes from Storm to look at Dean.

"You worked for them?" asked Sam.

"Try the other way around."

"Well look at you," said Dean with raised eyebrows.

"But now they want to kill you?" asked Pamela.

"Orders are orders. I'm sure I have a death sentence on my head," said Anna.

"Why is that?" asked Storm.

"I disobeyed—which, for us, is about the worst thing you can do. I fell."

_Fell._

Sam saw Storm's body, limp as a rag-doll, fall through the tree branches and land before his car. Lightning as white as Storm's hair had illuminated the whole thing, and with his arms folded, he glanced sideways at her.

_If not an angel . . . **what?**_

"Meaning?" pressed Dean.

"She fell to earth, became human," confirmed Pamela and Sam was distracted for a moment.

"Wait a minute . . . I don't understand," he said. "So, angels can just become human?"

"It kind of hurts. Try cutting your kidney out with a butter knife," said Anna. "That kind of hurts. I ripped out my grace."

"Come again?" said Dean.

Storm's focus was beginning to waver in and out from the conversation. There was an ache just above her right brow and she massaged it, waves of exhaustion gnarling into her like tree roots. Anna was saying something about her mother, how she couldn't get pregnant and had her instead when she 'fell'.

"Storm?" Sam's voice was the one that stood out from Storm's pain and she looked up, already predicting his question.

"I'm fine."

"I know you would think I'd have answers, Storm," said Anna, her voice less welcoming than the latter. "I'm sorry. Who you are, where you come from—you don't stand out in my mind."

"I understand." But Storm didn't understand. She didn't understand why when emotions raised high that all of the light bulbs in the room exploded, why she heard voices, and how she had made a man's innards rip from beneath his skin and paint the alley walls with his blood.

"I don't think any of you understand how royally screwed we all are," said Ruby unexpectedly.

"She's right. Heaven wants me dead," said Anna.

"And Hell just wants you. And now that you've got light-bulb killer tagging along, you're only doing more to parch their thirst to find you, and that's gonna happen sooner or later."

"I know. Which means I have to find my grace."

"You can do that?" said Dean.

"If I can find it."

"So, what, you're just gonna take some divine bong hit and shazam, you're Roma Downey?"

"Something like that."

"Alright, I like this plan. So where's this grace of yours?"

"Lost track. I was falling about ten-thousand miles per hour at the time."

Sam's eyes suddenly sparked with recognition. "Wait, you mean falling, like literally? Like a comet or meteor?"

"Yes. Why do you ask?"

"Alright, bear with me . . ."

In a matter of minutes, Sam and the others were surrounded by various books and magazines and even some newspaper articles. Sam was flipping through an article that was so aged that the white paper was fading into yellow and the pages turned with unease.

"Here, in '85 a meteorite vanished in the sky in northwestern Ohio. It was sighted nine months before Anna was born, and she was born in that part of Ohio."

"You're pretty buff for a nerd," snorted Ruby and for some reason, her and Storm made eye-contact.

"Look," sighed Sam, "I think it was Anna here, and same time—another meteorite in Kentucky."

"And that's her grace?" asked Ruby.

"Might be." And then he spoke to Anna, "Also, if you 'fell' in 1985, it would explain why you wouldn't have any idea who or what Storm is, because you turned human before I found her on the highway."

"You're gonna have to tell me that story again," said Dean. "Hey, maybe if Anna gets back her angel mojo she'll be able to tell more about Storm."

"Sam Winchester." Storm gave the ends of Sam's left fingers a gentle pull and a he did a double take. He looked into her dark green eyes where a few of her white hairs were messily getting in the way of, as if she had just stepped off of a motorcycle. When he did not reply immediately, she repeated his name in a strange mingle of soft firmness, "Sam Winchester."

"What's up?"

"I need to ask you something."

The second pull she gave to his fingers implied that she wanted to see him alone. His eyes did a sort of waver above the others' heads before he straightened up, cleared his throat, and followed Storm into the kitchen where she wasted no time in meeting his gaze with her intense one.

"What's on your mind?" he asked.

"I was on a road in the middle of a thunderstorm when you found me," she said as if it was necessary to remind him. "The day after was the birth of my new mind and personality. You have to tell me everything about that night, everything about the condition of my body when you found me. Anything you can think of. Anything."

Sam surveyed Storm tentatively. Vaguely in the back of his mind he had expected Storm to ask this of him these past few days, yet he knew she was searching for the specific details, and the details were the things he could not recall after such a long stretch of time.

"I—I don't know, Storm," he said, hoping to sound more sincere than hopeless.

"You found me in the road," she repeated, her expression unfazed by his answer. "Was I there when you were driving?"

"I—" But yes, he did know that, but the answer had hidden in the back of his mind for years. "You fell."

"Fell?"

"When I was driving down the road it looked like you—fell from the sky. I wouldn't have even noticed you if lightning hadn't struck at the exact same time you landed on the road. It wasn't like any meteorite."

He could tell that even if this hardly answered any questions she had, it at least satisfied her to some degree.

"Falling from the sky makes it seem like a fallen angel, but—if Anna doesn't think so . . . Do you remember anything else?"

The next thing that came to mind was that Storm had been completely naked, but he was reluctant to admit this to her, even if her nudity was the last thing on his mind when he saw her lying in that road. His silence intensified her questioning gaze.

"Your pulse was skyrocketing," he said, hoping the change of subject would drain away the flush in his cheeks. "And, uh, . . ."

It was the tweet from a morning bird outside that finally reminded Sam of the strangest occurrence that had happened that night.

"You had this—this, uh, bird in your hands," he continued, assuming Storm would show signs of astonishment at his words, but she surprised him with maintaining her frown and remaining mute. "Weird, huh?"

"What kind of bird?"

Once that the story was rolling, Sam's memory was suddenly persevering and there was little pause before his next words, "A dove, I think."

Sam's eyebrows were narrowing, the whole strangeness of the condition in which he had found her seeming raw all over again. He wanted to ask the question he knew was inane at this point; '_You don't remember __**anything?' **_

"Does that mean anything to you?" he asked instead.

"I don't know much about doves other than they represent love, peace, and hope; those kind of things. If you're religious, the Holy Spirit. Why I would be holding one, I have no idea."

Sam could hear the anxiety in her voice she was trying to hide and he tried to think of something to say, but he didn't know where to begin. Her grim smile indicated she knew he was looking for consoling words and also that they were not needed.

"Is that all you can think of?" she asked.

"Yeah," he sighed. "Yeah, I think so."

"Thank you, Sam."

Sam laughed; he couldn't help it. He had given her no information that could lead to the answers she obviously wanted, and yet the way she thanked him, even the way her eyes glimmered with the same sincerity her tone exhaled, she made it appear as though he had been a great asset. He didn't feel he deserved her genuineness and would have almost preferred her to be irritated with him for his lack of helpfulness.

"For what?" He was unable to restrain his voice from a skeptic snort. "I didn't exactly give you a five-pointer map."

"No, you didn't. In fact, I'm more confused than I was before." And at his bemused look, she added, "I just appreciate your willingness to help. You don't hesitate in helping when you can, and I find this admirable."

She wasn't smiling, but something about her tone, maybe it was the sincerity again, that made Sam feel unable to come up with an appropriate response. He wondered if his silence would offend her, but what was she expecting him to reply with? 'Thanks' was juvenile, and all at once he was suddenly self-aware of the impression he might be leaving upon Storm.

"Do you think that Castiel and the other knew what I was?" Storm asked as if there hadn't been a pause, saving Sam from his moment of indecisiveness. He leaped at the chance at the new direction the conversation was taking.

"I was sort of sleeping the sleep of unconsciousness," he said with a smile that spread too easily across his face, and hurt when he tried to fight it. She returned it knowingly.

"I think they do. Why would they know and not Anna? What if they're the only ones that can tell me what I am?" She wasn't hysteric, but her placid pitch wavered slightly. "Seeking them out would be a poor decision, wouldn't it?"

Sam realized she was half-joking, one half full of common sense at the fact that she had witnessed what the angels were really like, the other full of desperation to figure out the truth.

He chuckled, imagining what it would feel like if the only people who knew the truth of your existence were people like Castiel and Uriel. "Yeah, I think so," he got out, still with that dry laugh that felt like chalk on his tongue.

"Hmm," she hummed, sitting timidly in the dining chair she had sat in earlier, her fingers spread out in front of her and looking down at them as if counting all ten. "Guess I'll have to think of something else should a reunion with our feather-butt friends not come anytime soon."

This time Sam didn't want to fight the smile his lips were making of their own volition. "And are you glad that you're not part of the feather-butt family tree?"

"Glad, yes, but confused all the same. I don't think I would make a very good angel. I have a hard enough time not burning my toast in the morning."

"Because the two are entirely related."

"Absolutely."

Sam placed his thumbs in his pockets, glancing toward the living room, assuming he would meet Dean's eyes. The pair that replaced his were Ruby's and she was staring at him in a way he could not place. Perhaps anger? He looked back at Storm.

"We'll figure out something. Maybe what Dean said was right; maybe if we find Anna's grace, she'll be able to tell who you are."

'Who' you are, not 'what'. His choice of words alone spoke kindness.

"Maybe you could even convince Pamela to give a whirl with the hypnosis," he added as an afterthought.

"Maybe," she said, but he could tell she was humoring him. She got to her feet, meeting his gaze steadily and puffing out a sigh that ruffled her bangs. "I don't know. I don't think psychics and I click, but there was one thing she was spot on with."

Sam's eyebrows creased upward questioningly. "Oh yeah? What's that?"

"You know how to wear a pair of jeans like no guy I've ever met."

Storm left the room to join the others and Sam had to wait a full three minutes for his blush and grin to die down before he followed her.


	5. Lions

**Writing several stories at the same time? I take on the challenge with the result of aching fingers. **

**Thank you for your reviiiiiieeews :] you all are just lovely.**

_-Five-_

Lions

_Reality or dream, I know of no place on earth that has a six-foot fountain that has steaming green tea._

Storm leaned back on the red velvet armchair, glancing up at a sun that poured diamonds in its beams. A sky with clouds that appeared to be painted with white paint, abnormal in their texture and too perfect.

Storm curled her toes in the emerald green grass, smoothing her fingers along the material of the chair as she overlooked the meadow, every pore in her face seeming to take in the full weight of the white sun's soft heat. The fountain of tea, gray as storm clouds, stood five feat away next to a glass table with a see-through bowl piled high with Cheeto's, but all she did was stare.

"They're there for you, you know," came a dark purr to her left where she turned. Uriel sat on an identical armchair, though its velvet was of ocean green. His legs were crossed, leaning in the back of it with his folded hands on his knees like a therapist about to question Storm on her life. The smile on his face was so vague or otherwise lacking so much kindness that Storm was unsure on his expression altogether.

"Is this where the angels spend their Friday afternoons?" she asked.

"Not a one," he replied with only a small hint of bitter amusement stringing along with that grim smile of his. "This is your place."

"My place?"

"A part of it," said Uriel, which did nothing to aid to Storm's confusion. He shifted in his seat with an air of one about to break some bad news to another.

"Am I dreaming?" she said.

"Is that your way of asking if this is real or not?"

"Yes."

"You're dreaming, but that doesn't extinguish the realness of it. I had no other way of speaking to you, seeing as you hide under the wings of those insufferable Winchesters."

Storm paused, listening to the neighboring call of a pigeon's tweet but could not directly locate its position. She looked back at Uriel.

"The use of your word 'hiding' makes it sound as if there is a reason to hide," she said.

Uriel gave his first smile that showed any genuineness to it.

"What am I?" she said.

"You know what you're not."

"But you know exactly what I am. What is it to be important enough to involve angels visiting me in my dreams? What do you gain in refraining from telling me?"

Uriel outstretched a pudgy hand and rested it over Storm's that was on the arm of the chair. She did not withdraw, but her eyebrows came together.

"The information is valuable to you, and when there is value, a price can always be laid out," said Uriel.

Storm's hand slid out from underneath his.

"You want something from me?" she asked. "In return for telling me what I am?"

"Nothing is free, not even in Heaven."

"No."

Uriel's eyebrows raised. "I haven't even told you what I want in return."

"You want her; you want Anna."

"She means more to you than answering the mystery of your life?"

"The loss of my humanity means more to me than answering the mystery of my life."

At this, Uriel actually threw back his head and let out a bark of laughter. "You can't lose what you never had to begin with. Anna is someone who has committed an atrocious crime. Turning in a criminal in exchange for the information you need. When you really look at it, not doing so would make you yourself a criminal."

Storm breathed out silently, turning her head away from the prying black eyes of the angel. "You knew what I was before you even saw me. 'How could _it _be with the Winchesters' you said. You implied I was something you knew about, something that you were surprised to find on earth, as if I could be anywhere else. Even if I didn't care what happened to Anna, how could I be sure that you wouldn't take me along with her?"

There was a strong silence, and what broke it eventually was Uriel speaking in icy impatience. "And you're implying that you're something important enough for us to take?"

"You would have told me what I am by now. Otherwise you wouldn't be able to hold the information over my head like this; it wouldn't have been 'valuable' enough."

"Don't overrate yourself."

"I'm not going to tell you where we are so you have no reason to tell me what I want to know—so why you're still here . . . I don't know."

A silence, similar to the last one, settled in. And one by one, the sounds of the area seemed to turn off. The chirp of birds stopped like they had been muted by a remote, the trickle of the fountain silenced, and altogether the wind, colors and sun seemed to die down with them.

Storm awoke to a stream of sunlight that was aiding the dots of sweat along her hairline. She wiped at it, turning her head slowly on the couch pillow and watching Dean enter the living room. He glanced at her, and then returned his gaze to the paper in his hands.

"Great; was 'bout to wake you. We're about ready to take this road trip down to Kentucky, if you're ready."

"Are we on the search for Anna's grace?"

"Huh?" He seemed distracted. "Oh—uh, yeah. I mean we don't exactly have a compass leadin' us due north, but she seems to think she'll know when she knows."

"I'm ready—whenever you are."

"Peachy."

He paused in the doorway and Storm waited for him to say something. His fingers folded the paper and he took awhile before glancing at her over his shoulder. He looked to be in consideration of turning away, but he surprised her in speaking,

"Sorry to get you cooked up in all of this."

She surveyed him.

"In all this," she echoed. "Something tells me I would have ended up 'in all this' whether you interfered or not."

"Yeah, but—I dunno," he said with a dry chuckle. "I wouldn't get anyone involved in this life if I could help it. You bein' here is kinda accidental. It's just—" But he didn't finish and Storm continued to consider him.

"I don''t have a life to return to, Dean," she said steadily. "What I have in my life is weekly therapy sessions that drive in circles, a one-bedroom apartment where I can hear the neighbors screaming the next room over, and my idea of a fun night is getting a new book from the library and reading until I pass out. All the while I have no idea what I—" She met his eyes. "Who I am."

"Therapy, screamin' neighbors and books, huh?" he said after a pause. "Sounds like a calm Sunday afternoon in my book."

"At least here I'm closer to knowing who I am if I tag along with you guys."

"Seem to be doin' that a lot lately. Just consider us your liberated crew who helps you 'find yourself'," he said with a bite of bitter amusement in his tone. "Well, you give off the whole mystery vibe in the group, so that's somethin'." He paused again. "Also, Sammy seems to like havin' you around so that's another somethin'."

They looked at each other for another few moments, up until Dean gave an awkward nod of his head before leaving Storm to allow her to get ready.

Once on the road, Storm requested to stop by her apartment to gather a few necessities. As she stood in her living room, she looked around at all the pencil sketchings on the wall of all the birds that had frequently visited her in the early morn and their alien songs. She knew she wouldn't be able to bring them, and anyway; they reminded her too vividly of the times she had drawn them inside of the ward.

She packed her clothes along with a few other things from the bathroom such as a toothbrush, shampoo and conditioner. Luckily she didn't have to worry about things like tampons because not once in her three years of consciousness had she ever gotten her period.

Storm paused in her bedroom, her legs soon leading her to the night stand beside the bed and opening it. She pulled out the decaying deck of Uno cards, flipping it over in her fingers. She wasn't smiling at the fond memories of when Sam had visited her back in the hospital, but what she felt was a kind of beautiful ache in her chest. She was at a loss for the reasoning behind this and ended up tossing the cards in her bag.

Storm was squished between Anna and Ruby in the back seat of the Impala, a Twizzler wedged between her teeth with her head bowed low as she read _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. _She was aware of Dean frequently looking in the rear-view mirror at them, chuckling lightly.

"What?" Ruby said sharply.

"Nothin'. S'just—an angel, a demon, and an amnesiac girl ridin' in the back seat. It's like the setup to a bad joke. Or a Penthouse Forum Letter."

"Dude . . . reality . . . porn," said Sam.

"You call this reality?" countered Dean.

"What?" said Storm unexpectedly and everyone glanced at her.

"What?" echoed Dean.

"What's that?" she said.

"What's what?"

"Porn."

Dean and Sam glanced at each other, Sam's face uncertain whilst Dean looked as though he was holding back a guffaw.

"Uh . . ." said Dean. "Well it's—um, like a film industry—generally intended for male viewers and—"

"Dude," interrupted Sam again.

"What?" said Dean and Storm together, and he added, "It's not like I would _show _her what it is."

"_Dude."_

"_What__?"_

"Too far," said Sam.

"She's not like a kid or anything. I mean, doesn't look like it. Do you even know how old you are?" Dean directed at Storm.

"No," she said. "They've estimated me to be either late teens to early twenties."

"Well there you go," said Dean to Sam who was fighting an eye-roll. Dean glanced at Storm again. "Jeeze, you're almost so innocent it's cute."

Storm looked unsure of what to say to this, so she looked at Sam who was wearing a guilty look on his brother's behalf. She smiled uncertainly back.

.

"It's just up this way," Anna was saying as the five of them ventured across the oak field, though it was quite unnecessary seeing as even from a distance the figure of the enormous tree was visible. Its intertwined branches that gleamed with emerald leaves seemed to stretch skyward, a rather impressive outline with the orange light of the setting sun just behind it.

Sam stopped when he realized there was a distinct lack of footsteps from behind, and looked around. "Storm?"

Storm was about ten feet behind the rest of the group, her eyes cast on the violet and orange hues of the sunset painted sky. There was a rather remarkable effect on the thick wisps of clouds that reflected the blood-red glow of the sun in the horizon, which seemed to be the thing that stole Storm's attention.

He glanced at the others, realized their attention was still anchored on the tree, hesitating another moment before walking up to Storm who seemed oblivious to his advances.

"Storm?" he repeated.

She shook her head as if awakening from a daze and looked at him. "Sorry?"

"Everything okay?"

"Yes," she said at once, but her eyes remained unfocused and he wondered if she was listening to him. She looked back at the sky, saying gently, "It's beautiful."

He looked at it, too, but then took the advantage of her distraction to study her more fully. There was almost a wistful sweep in her eyes that were still measuring the sky up and down. He decided that her skin reminded him of the sleek texture of an orchard's petal with eyes the color of dark moss. With her hair she almost looked inhuman, alien, yet not in a disconcerting way.

"Yeah," he agreed.

For a moment he thought she was crying, but when she looked at him again, her eyes were quite clear. She smiled.

"Let's go."

When they rejoined the group beside the group, Anna was saying, "It's where my grace touched down. I can feel it."

There was a tweeting noise and Sam looked up to see a blue jay perched on one of the closer branches, its head bobbing up and down, bouncing a little on its stick legs.

"You ready to do this?" said Dean and Anna gave him a grim smile.

"Not really."

"Anna, what are we even looking for?" said Sam, tearing his eyes away from the bird, but the tweeting only seemed to be intensifying.

Anna moved tenderly forward, holding out a palm and planting it over the tree trunk. He could see a dark comprehension flood her expression as she withdrew, shaking her head.

"It doesn't matter. It's not here. Not anymore. Someone took it," she said.

"Someone?" said Storm. "There's probably only a spare few people who would have any idea where your grace landed."

"Maybe a few of your halo-twirling buddies?" suggested Dean but Anna was quiet.

The rest of them echoed her silence, but the wilderness certainly didn't. Quite the contrary. It seemed from the moment they had approached the tree, the birds of the area had all fluttered down onto it, making it alive with birdsong. There were so many tweeting at once that it was honestly almost annoying.

"Uh, guys?" said Dean, but he needn't point out anything; everyone was already staring.

Every branch on the beautiful tree held a various breed of bird, their beaks snapping open and closed as they flapped their wings and sang their songs. They were all feather to feather, so close it was almost comical, but in truth it was rather alarming. With the entire tree alit with numerous colors, all due to the different colored feathers, it looked as though it had been decorated for Christmas.

Sam looked at Storm who was staring up at them all, as if trying to catch sight of each and every one of them.

"That normal?" said Dean, actually having to raise his voice an octave in order to make himself heard over the birds.

"No," said Storm and everyone looked at her, but she was looking surprised with herself. She dismissed herself from elaborating by shaking her head.

"Well, if the grace isn't here, we don't have any reason to be hanging around a tree all day," said Ruby. "We should get out of sight."

Storm was last to disperse away from the tree, only turning around when Anna called her name.

.

The still of the night was deafening. The wind was frozen in the air, the scurries of animals and their calls were nonexistent, and the tirade of overall silence made a pronounced ringing in Storm's ears. The quiet was so bold, that a leaf could be hear falling gently on the soft earth.

It was unsettling, unnatural. It made Storm think of the silence that would ensue from the audience as the lion was set upon the gladiators. But if the forest was the audience, and her and the others the soldiers, then who was the lion?

From the barn behind her, she could hear Dean's voice cleanly, "We still got the hex bags. I say we head back to the panic room."

"What, forever?" snapped Ruby.

"I'm just thinking out loud!"

"Oh, you call that thinking?"

"Hey!" intervened Sam. "Hey, hey, hey. Stop it."

"Anna's grace is gone, you understand? She can't angel up. She can't protect us. We can't fight Heaven and Hell. One side, maybe. But not both, not at once. And all we've got as defense is one ex-angel, a coupla hunter humans, a demon, and a memory-drained, light bulb-exploding, comic con reject."

"Storm, you should come inside."

Anna had come out from the barn by Storm's side without Storm realizing it. The girls looked at each other carefully until Anna cast her gaze to where Storm's had been previously. The moon was out, not yet full but its light was carried heavily within its silvery beams. Storm stared at it until faint black stars peppered her vision and met Anna's eyes directly again.

"I know what it's like not to know where you come from," said Anna in a steady voice.

"Or what you are," said Storm.

"Who your real parents are."

"How you've come to be here."

"And why it appears the Winchesters always must be involved somehow."

"You talk about them like they're famously known," said Storm.

"I've heard about them long enough; I feel like I know them. And you've heard about them, too. By the angels, I mean."

"I honestly don't hear a lot from them."

"But you still do, Storm, which in some regard means that you are connected to Heaven somehow. You wouldn't be able to hear them talk otherwise. That's a start."

"A start to a new circle of questions. If I'm connected to Heaven but not an angel, what would that make me?"

"A radio? Someone who has the power to tune into the convo of higher beings?"

Storm's head inclined slightly as she surveyed Anna. "You said yourself you don't think I'm human."

"I said I wasn't sure if you're human, but it's hard to tell since I don't have my grace. But I still swear that we have met before."

Anna's eyes crinkled as her eyebrows creased upward in wonder.

"In Heaven or earth?" said Storm.

"I don't know. It's not so much your face that's familiar as much as—just you. You're just someone I felt like I've been around before, had in my life for a short period of time."

"I guess I could have been anywhere before three years ago."

Anna moved so that she was right beside Storm and she felt the heat of her hand against the back of hers, and for a moment she thought that she might grab it, but Anna just looked at her with more intensity.

"I somehow feel an obligation to help you. I just . . . once I get my grace back, maybe we can get to the bottom of it. Together, I mean. Assuming you're not still with the brothers."

Storm looked over her shoulder at the barn, as if the establishment itself was the Winchesters they were discussing in low tones over.

"It would be dangerous," said Anna, as if interpreting Storm's glance at the building a sign of fear. "Having a death toll over my head and everything . . . But so would be traveling with those two."

"Are you asking me to come with you to . . . wherever it is you may be going when you finally get your grace back?"

"Maybe. Like I said; I feel like I know you, and maybe I'm just taking it on faith on that being true. If I can, I want to help you. Get your memories back and everything."

"You can just be my guardian angel," snorted Storm, and the two shared an uncertain chuckle. "I appreciate the offer, and—and I'll just have to think more on it."

"Do you have something that would potentially keep you here?" said Anna, but her voice was soft.

Storm once more glanced at the barn, and as if caught in the act of doing something inappropriate, looked quickly forward again and sighed out a sigh that spoke helplessness in all tones.

"Not that I know of," said Storm.

Anna apparently decided not to answer.

When the girls returned to the safety of the barn, Dean was pacing the length of the room with his eyebrows contracted and barely glanced up at Anna or Storm. Sam was seated on a stack of loose hay with Ruby standing closely by, her arms crossed and cold gaze lingering on Storm.

Storm waved at Sam with a feeble wiggle of her fingers and he managed a smile in return.

"What's going on?" said Anna.

"What's going on?" said Ruby sharply. "What's going on is that we've got the wooden walls of this barn between us and two armies from Heaven and Hell. We're sitting ducks out here and we have no lines of defense against them."

"What are our options?" said Storm.

"Flee, hide, throw exploding light bulbs at them and hope it's enough to intimidate them away?"

"Ruby . . ." said Sam but Storm wasn't looking at him.

"If we can drive to Home Depot now, we can probably get enough that's needed," said Storm.

Ruby seized her with a look of purest unamusement. "All of our lives are on the block, alright? That doesn't rule you out, even if no one really knows why you're here in the first place."

"I've been told I have perky breasts."

Ruby actually threw her hands up in exasperation. "Great. Just great."

"Um, guys?" Anna was suddenly saying, steering everyone's attention toward her. Apart from Storm who had slapped her palm to her forehead, feeling as though a harpoon had just pierced her brain. "The angels are talking again."

"What are they saying?" said Sam anxiously, getting to his feet.

"It's weird . . . like a recording . . . a loop. It says 'Dean Winchester gives us Anna and the Athedas by midnight, or . . ."

"Or what?" said Dean, frozen in mid-pace and hard eyes set on the angel.

"'Or we hurl him back into damnation,'" finished Storm and she and Dean met gazes,

The following silence seemed to prickle up Storm's arms, making goose pimples swell almost painfully along the surface of her skin.

"What's Athedas?" said Sam finally.

"Search me," said Dean quietly, but his eyes were still on Storm.

But of course, who else would it be? But it was _the _Athedas, implying it was a thing or object. Yet the implication was clear; the angels wanted Anna and Storm, and were threatening to march Dean right back into the pit should they not meet these terms.

"Anna," said Sam slowly, who also seemed to be following along Dean's thought process and was surveying Storm with worry, "do you know of any weapon that works on an angel?"

"To what? Kill them?" she said and Sam nodded. "Nothing we could get to. Not right now."

"Okay, wait, wait, wait," said Dean, the cogs in his brain working fiercely under the weight of his thoughts. "I say we call Bobby. Get him back from hedonism."

"Dean, what's he gonna tell us that we don't already know?" said Sam timidly.

"I don't know, but we gotta think of something."

This 'something' was searched high and low through stacks of ledgers and textbooks for the following few hours, but to no avail. It was up to the point where Sam, Ruby, and Storm were the only ones left in the barn. Sam was reading a book while leaning over a wooden desk that looked like a bar of dried soap, bone-dry and cracked in various places and perched on rickety legs. His eyes were red with tiredness and had re-read one line over five times without taking in the meaning of it at all.

Storm was happily engulfed in a nest of hay, the smell of it, even the way its scratchy texture crinkled beneath her bodyweight was familiar to her. She too was reading a book, three years of doing nothing for fun but reading and drawing aiding her skill and patience.

Far into the night, three hours before midnight, Sam's soft breaths that were not exactly snores filled the thick air, the only sound Storm could hear. That and the crunch of boots on hay and Storm peered over the top of her book in time to see Ruby about to leave the building.

"Where are you going?" asked Storm.

Ruby permitted Storm a glance, which was saying a lot since Storm had the growing suspicion that the demon didn't like her very much.

"Trying to do what you guys aren't," she said.

"So you have to slip away while Sam is sleeping?"

"I didn't say he'd like it."

The two stared each other down, Storm's fingers suspended in the action of turning the next page.

"Do you want to try and stop me?" said Ruby. Her voice wasn't skeptic, it was challenging. Like she wanted an excuse to lash out at Storm who was tasting the metallic tang of blood on her chapped lips as she ran her tongue over them.

"I can't stop you," stated Storm, not allowing her gaze to waver from the dark eyes of the demon. She swallowed a trail of thin, warm saliva that slid with dull taste down her throat. And as Ruby turned away again, she said, "But I can make a light bulb shatter some glass in your eye and that would hurt—a lot."

Ruby only hesitated a moment longer with her fingers curling along the door handle, then opened it silently and left. Storm stood up, using her finger to save the place in her book and shaking the hay out of her hair. Sam's only response to her approaching presence was a gentle crinkle of his nose, though he was quite still with his head propped up on the thick, yellowing pages. His body rose softly up and down in time with his even breathing, indicating he was in a deep sleep.

She stared down at him as if taking in his appearance was something of a rare occurrence. It was odd thinking of it so bluntly, but she liked looking at him. She had also felt this way back in the hospital three years ago when she watched him do his homework, observing his brow crinkle and eyes gleam over with concentration when faced with a difficult concept.

The three years felt more like ten, but she was at least certain that Sam had remained, more or less, the same person. Only when she faced them again did she realize how much she missed the gentle warmth his gaze had swept upon her since the first time they had met. Storm had never understood the brand of kindness he had shown her since that night, how he stayed with her for that perfect week as if sensing how lonely and confused she had been, vulnerable as a babe left in the woods. She had never reciprocated for how he had acted; she hadn't had any time, and now when they reunited they were supposedly about to face the fight of their lives.

If there was time, of course, Storm would ponder on ways to repay him.

"Sam Winchester?" Storm said softly, as if afraid to wake him even if this was her intention. She pulled gently on the collar of his shirt, like a child trying to wake up a parent. Sam's eyelids fluttered at once, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he sat up in his chair, looking up at her.

"What's up?" he said sleepily, examining the pieces of hay still attached to her body and hair.

"Everyone's disappearing on us," she said, casually flicking off a lock of straw from her sleeve. "I don't know where Dean or Anna are and Ruby just left."

Sam seemed to blink himself awake. "Left when?"

"A few minutes ago."

"She say why?"

"To do what we are apparently not doing." She pulled up a wooden crate and sat on it, and even if it was a little higher than Sam's chair, she still only met him eye-level. "Also, it's apparently our last night on earth. I wasn't sure if you wanted to spend it sleeping. Or, maybe you did. If so, I'm sorry."

Sam considered her. "You don't seem exactly rattled that we're being hunted down by Heaven and Hell."

"I have too many other things to be rattled about, Sam Winchester; I don't have room for another."

"Seriously though . . . how are you?"

Storm took her time in surveying him, weighing her willingness to tell him the truth. Sam surely wasn't looking for the general reply of 'fine', but genuinely wanted a sincere answer from her, and once again Storm felt that terrible pang that he was being too kind than what she deserved.

"Confused," she nodded. "Irritated, kind of angry. A little hungry."

Sam's lips twitched in a halfhearted smile, glancing at her stomach as if expecting it to growl and then met her eyes again. "Uh, afraid at all?"

Storm was silent for a few moments, resting her hand on her knee and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "I—no, I'm not afraid," she said at last, and it was perfectly true. Amidst the whirlpool of emotions that fastened a tight fist around her, fear was not among them. And when Sam looked slightly unconvinced, she added, "I just don't believe that any of us are going to die."

He looked a little taken aback by her choice of words and she hurried to add, "If there is a God, I don't think he would be cruel enough to reunite us together after three years only to tear us apart days later."

'Us' could have meant anyone, and Sam knew that, but her sentence seemed to be pointed toward him and Storm alone and he smiled to himself, but quickly straightened his face when she glanced at him again.

"So, how's it feel to be on Heaven's most wanted list?" he asked.

"Who says I am?"

"The message seemed pretty clear. Does the name Athedas ring any bells?"

"Yes," she said at once, "but it's not enough to bring back any memories. But yeah, it does sound familiar."

"Think it was your name?" Sam pressed, but Storm was already shrugging.

"I don't know anything, much less why Heaven would want anything to do with me."

"We'll think of something, Storm. We're not about to hand you over."

Storm breathed out something which barely passed as a laugh. "And I'm not about to make any such accusations of you. We still have," she checked her watch, but then remembered it had broken a week ago and looked up, "probably a few hours left until midnight. I'm not getting anything from that book you gave me."

"I'm not either," he sighed with a glance at the textbook before him.

Storm slumped a little in her seat, attempting to comb the hay from her hair with her fingers. She was trying to think of what to do when she let out a sharp squeak of, "Oh!" that made Sam start and she got to her feet, trotting off back to the hay where her bag was.

She returned to a half befuddled, half amused Sam who watched her sit back on the crate and fish through her bag. Twenty seconds later she pulled from it an old and familiar deck of Uno cards in which Sam stared at for several seconds.

"You've held onto them for three years?" he said in small astonishment.

"What reason did I have in throwing them away?" she said as she took the cards from the small box and began to shuffle. "I made sure to keep a tight hold on these. They remind me of you."

Sam was a little unsure of what to say to that. Though her blunt sincerity was always a little disconcerting, in some way it was rather refreshing, perhaps because of years being stuffed in the Impala with Dean who didn't exactly wear his heart on his sleeve. Also, the idea of Storm being alone in a hospital and picking up the deck of cards and thinking of him made Sam's chest endure a sort of hurtful joy.

Storm didn't give Sam a chance to be embarrassed, however. Smiling slightly as she handed him his hand of cards, she said, "Whatever happens, reliving my happiest moments is the best way I can think of spending the remaining hours."

Sam wasn't smiling as he accepted his handful of cards with fingers that didn't feel attached to his hands. He was looking at Storm who was busy beaming down at her hand with apparent genuineness, wondering if it was possible for her to be this cheerful in light of the recent events. It was simply odd to imagine something like Uno could make her eyes light up so enthusiastically. It was almost unsettling.

Yet her demeanor was irrevocably contagious, and soon Sam felt as though he was back at that hospital after a day at college, sitting by her bed playing cards, looking up words in the dictionary, and watching her draw child-like sketchings of birds.

Permitting a game of Uno for this mysterious girl suddenly seemed not only a small feat, but an enjoyable one.

.

Dean knew he was dreaming the moment Uriel stood from him on the opposite side of the barn.

"Look at that. It's so cute when monkeys wear clothes," said Uriel.

"I'm dreaming, aren't I?"

"It's the only way we could chat since you're all hiding like cowards."

"Don't normally see you off your leash. Where's your boss?"

"Castiel? Oh, he, uh . . . he's not here." The angel smiled a little. "See, he has this weakness. He likes you. Time's up, boy. We want them. Both of them."

Dean placed his hands in his pockets, looking at Uriel with mock consideration. "Alright, I get why you want Anna. Well, sorta. Disobeyed one of your wacko rules, followed her own free will—pissed you off. What's with Storm? Why is she suddenly such a big deal?"

Uriel hardly moved, remaining in his placid position, but perhaps his smile grew a little colder. "I'm curious as to what you think she is."

"No idea. Something too old for dusty textbooks?"

"Something too new," said Uriel, the cool amusement wavering in his tone.

"What is she?"

"And why would I tell you that, monkey?"

"Well you obviously want her for some reason, and somehow I don't think it's because of her fashion statement in hair color. You're after Anna because she became human. What, did Storm pick her nose in your presence or something?"

"She's not an angel."

"Thanks for the memo."

"She's a time bomb, and the longer you keep her in you and your brother's presence the smaller chance you have to survive. So think of it as a favor if we take her off your hands."

Dean was entirely taken aback, but he kept his face straight as he stared down Uriel with such a cool gaze that even his eyeballs felt a little chilled. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

Uriel suddenly became very interested in straightening the white cuffs of his suit in a very sanctimonious manner, but he said, "Would _you _feel safe using a tank that was only half-built?"

Dean didn't want to satisfy Uriel by responding with another comment that confirmed his confusion. "Well, I wouldn't try anything if I were you. See, Anna got her grace back. Full-blown angel now."

Uriel's eyes lifted to his. "That would be a neat trick, considering," he pulled out a necklace from underneath his suit which emitted a bluish white glow and Dean swallowed bile, "I have her grace right here. We can't let Hell get their hooks into her."

"Well, then why don't you just give her back her angel juice?"

The angel lowered the necklace back under the folds of his clothing. "She committed a serious crime."

"What, thinking for herself?"

"This is our business, not yours. She's not even human . . . not technically."

"Yeah, well, I guess I just like being a pain in the pooper."

There was a sudden glint in Uriel's eye, a dark twinkle of amusement that made Dean's stomach feel as if it was being used as a mixing bowl. "No, there's more," said the angel, his lips spreading upward to reveal his white teeth, quite alarming against his dark complexion. He let out a whoop of laughter. "You cut yourself a slice of . . . angel food cake, didn't you? Huh. You did."

"What do you care?" Dean countered, his voice like the end of a shard of glass. "You're junkless down there, right? Like a Ken doll?"

"Ooh, well, it's your last chance. Give us the girls, or—"

"Or what? You're gonna toss me back in the hole? You're bluffing."

Uriel's eyebrows rose. "Try me. This is a whole lot bigger than the plans we got for you, Dean. You can be replaced."

"What the hell?" Dean challenged. "Go ahead and do it."

"You're just crazy enough to go, aren't you?"

"What can I say? I don't break easy."

"Oh, yes . . . you do. You just have to know where to apply the right pressure."

.

Lines of morning sun snuck in through the holes in the barn walls, stretching across the dirty floor and igniting the flecks of dust mites in the air. Storm was lying in her bed of hay again, her jacket tossed over her like a blanket as she watched a small black spider scurry across the wall nearby her.

When the door opened, she did not get up but her eyes caught sight of Dean, Sam and Anna walking in. Sam was saying, "I don't know, man. Where's Ruby?"

"Hey, she's your Hell buddy," said Dean, ending his sentence with a feverish swig of his flask.

"Little early for that, isn't it?" said Anna.

"It's two am. Somewhere."

"Storm, hey," said Sam as she got to her feet, dusting herself off again. "Managed to get any sleep?"

"Maybe a wink," she said, yet her unblinking eyes lingered on Dean. "You seem on edge."

Dean looked at her, and there was definitely something shadowed along the green of his eyes. It didn't appear he could look at Storm. "On edge? Why would I be on edge?"

Storm was revoked the chance of answering by the two barn doors that opened with a blast so fierce, her hair swept about her shoulders. Following the action were two angels, carrying intimidation as an attire. Storm's eyes swept over Uriel's face before Castiel's, but he was looking at Anna.

Storm's breast lifted slightly as she inhaled a breath that seemed to dry the walls of her throat.

"Hello, Anna," said Castiel. "It's good to see you."

"How—" said Sam, and he was suddenly looking around at Storm as if possessed by the sudden tendency to run at her and carry her away. His arms sort of spread out as though he might actually activate this impulse, he looked back at the angels. "How did you find us?" He looked around at Dean who was not looking at anyone, and his silence seemed to trigger some sort of confession. "Dean?"

Dean allowed himself as much eye-contact as he could with Anna as he said quietly, "I'm sorry." He then glanced at Storm. "Both of you."

And Storm understood.

"Why?" said Sam, evidently too shocked too feel any other kind of emotion.

"Because they gave him a choice," said Anna without taking her eyes off Dean. "They either kill me . . . or kill you. I know how their minds work."

Anna reached out and took Dean's face in a gentle hand, inclining her head to kiss him softly on the lips. Self-loathing and guilt stitched to every pore of Dean's face as he allowed himself barely a second to kiss her back.

"You did the best you could. I forgive you. Okay," said Anna as she looked back at Castiel and Uriel. "No more running. I'm ready."

Storm's eyes fell upon Castiel, but still he wasn't looking at her. In fact, she got the distinct impression that he was purposefully looking at anywhere but at Storm.

"I'm sorry," he told Anna.

"No. You're not. Not really. You don't know the feeling."

"Still. We have a history. It's just—"

"I still want to know why you're bothering to hunt me down at all," said Storm suddenly, and all but Castiel's attention was drawn to her, but it was still he who answered.

"Your memory was drained from you three years previously," he told her with his eyes on the ceiling, as if he was sure this was news to her.

Honestly, the angels frightened Storm, but now that they were in her midst and sure that they had the answers she had starved for for three years, the fire of determination had never burned so greatly in her stomach. Now that she actually faced them and it was the time for action, she felt braver.

"It was," she said, taking a careful step forward. "Three years ago I fell from the sky on an old California highway in the middle of a lightning storm and was saved by Sam Winchester. I haven't been able to remember a thing beforehand. You know why and you know what I am. I'm asking you to tell me."

Storm was suddenly second-guessing her bravery as Castiel's cool blue eyes finally met hers, and following his gaze was the smell of that meadow, that tinkle of birdsong that made Storm's heart flutter. She stared back at Castiel, forcing the uncertainty out of her mind and feeling like every moment she maintained eye-contact with the angel was a moment in which a nerve of hers was obliterated.

"You were in Heaven when you fell," said Castiel evenly.

"But I'm not an angel."

"No."

"Then what—"

"Castiel," said Uriel in a warningly sing-song voice that made Storm want to decapitate him with a hand axe. "You know what we've been ordered to do."

"_Castiel," _said Storm in a voice that suggested she had said his name in this manner a thousand times previously. "What is Atheda—"

She was cut off by the sudden appearance of others, one of them being a bloody and beat up Ruby. The entire group seemed to withdraw breath at the sight of them and Storm knew at once that they must be demons.

"Alastair," said Dean under his breath.

"Heya, Dean," the one called Alastair said as he took in his surroundings, smiling at the lot of them. "And what a group you have here. A poor exiled angel, and . . ." he paused at Storm, arching a brow and lifting his nose in the air as if to actually sniff her out. "Well, don't you just smell beautifully twisted. This what you're hiding, Winchester?"

"Turn around and walk away now," ordered Castiel.

"Sure, just give us the girl. We'll make sure she gets punished good and proper."

"You know who we are and what we will do. I won't say it again. Leave now... or we lay you to waste."

"Think I'll take my chances."

And then a fight amongst angels and demons ensued. Storm lost track of whom was attacking whom in the rain of chaos, feeling a strong tug on her forearm that forced her out of harm's way.

"Storm, you need to get yourself out of here." It was Sam, coming to her aid as always, but Storm shook her head.

"How can I, Sam Winchester?" said Storm, just as Dean delivered a crowbar to the top of Alastair's head.

"You need to."

"No."

"_Why?"_

"Because you _still _haven't told me what porn is!" she said, and Sam's grip loosened out of incredulity.

A weight of another being forced her away from Sam and her body was slammed onto the barn floor head-first, white stars appearing in her vision as she strained to catch vision of her attacker. One of Alastair's demons was in the process of pinning her to the ground but Storm's body acted before her mind had even comprehended what was happening.

Her palm found the demon's forehead and with the sensation of a giant thorn shooting up her arm, the taste of demonic blood poisoned the tip of her tongue as the demon exploded. Along with it, so did her brain where a pain so severe was starting, that for a good moment she forgot her location, her surroundings, and overall what was happening.

"_Storm."_

She didn't know who was shouting her name, but as she at last opened her eyes, she discovered her entire being was soaked with the innards of demon.

She recovered herself just in time to see Anna rip a chain around Uriel's neck. He didn't have time to even protest before the pendant was smashed onto the floor and a bright light, blinding and dominating the atmosphere of the room, poured into Anna's mouth. "Shut your eyes. Shut your eyes! _Shut your eyes!"_

Storm, disoriented and discombobulated, only just managed to shut her eyes, but even through her closed eyelids she could make out the white light that seemed to sear into her skin. It was over before it began, and when Storm thought it safe to open her eyes, she found that Anna and Alastair were gone.

"Storm . . ." said the same voice that had just been shouting her name, and she looked up at Sam who was staring down at her bloodstained body.

"I'm alright," she said, but allowed Sam to help her to her feet.

"Well, what are you guys waiting for?" Dean was saying to the angels. "Go get Anna, unless, of course, you're scared."

"This isn't over," said Uriel.

"Oh, it looks over to me, junkless."

But Uriel's eyes were sweeping over Storm who was still using Sam to balance herself, wiping blood from her face. He looked at her directly as he said, "Remember, Dean; time bomb. Let's see how long you can survive with her in your midst before she goes haywire and ends up painting her body with your brother's blood."

Castiel met Storm's gaze, and within that moment, something almost like an apology was written in the blue of his eyes before both angels disappeared.


	6. When Angels Have Doubts, Birds Fly Free

**Hope I'm playing the mystery card right here. I'm glad I got all of you curious about the situation. *Snicker, snicker.***

**I read and loved allll of your reviews. You made me a very happy author.**

_-Six-_

When Angels Have Doubts, Birds Fly Free

Storm scrubbed.

She scrubbed and she scrubbed.

She scrubbed until her skin was an inflamed baby pink from the ferocity of the washcloth, and the burn of the steaming water.

Her hands, her chest, neck and face were now clean of blood, though locks of her hair wet were still a vague pinkish color, but still she could feel the warm stickiness of the scarlet liquid on her flesh. She was gazing as much as she could at herself in the steamy mirror, wondering if she was imagining fear in her face simply because she believed it to be there.

She looked down at her hands that rested on either side of the white marble sink, the right one still pumping as though it had been crushed under the wheel of a truck. Her head was doing no better and energy was at its lowest. The strength it took to do whatever she had done to that demon seemed to have drained her to an inch of unconsciousness.

She wiped a hand down her face which was still wet with shower water, releasing a cough which felt like a ball of needles in her throat. Her eyes were on the faucet handles, frowning down at it as if sure she could make it turn with the force of her mind. It wasn't moving, but she definitely sensed a sort of tug that did nothing but aid to her already aching brain.

The knock on her motel room door was like an overpowering gong and Storm flinched at the noise, ashamed of her skittishness. She wrapped her towel more securely around herself, looked in the mirror one last time to put on a small smile, and then made to answer the door.

Sam didn't look to be expecting to see Storm under dressed and did a very conspicuous scope of the towel before forcing himself to meet her eyes.

"Er . . . I, uh . . ." He let out an all too nonchalant and cheery chuckle that did not level up with the pink in his cheeks. "You . . . well, you got blood all over your clothes, so, um . . . here." He handed her what was in his hands and Storm accepted the bundle of clothing that felt as if it had just gotten out of the dryer.

"Thank you."

Storm had learned a lot of things in her three years of being conscious, but to be shameful wasn't one of them. She had never learned how it affected men to when bits of skin not regularly seen were revealed. Probably because men were never a popular company amongst her. It wasn't as though her doctors heavily advised her getting into relationships with her condition, and so therefore Storm hadn't even so much as held hands with a boy before. Anyways, it wasn't as if she knew how to have a relationship.

Though even she sensed how her lack of clothing was leaving some affect on Sam, smiling politely as he may be right now.

She looked at him, as if thinking her next few words would cool the air between them, "You've seen me naked before."

Sam's eyes bugged before he could stop them, and he carefully coughed to recover himself, scratching behind his neck. "Well, I . . ."

"The doctors and nurses told me," she said, still in that almost maddeningly calm voice, oblivious to the fact that she was just making things more awkward between them. In fact, Sam was under the impression that she assumed telling him this would ease him. " 'Sam Winchester found you completely naked.'"

"Sorry about that," he said and she scoffed.

"It wasn't strange to me; I didn't know nudity was something people feared. I still don't, really. Why is your face the color of bricks?" she added.

"Uh, it's not," he said and Storm smiled, hugging the clothes to her chest as though they were a cuddly teddy bear.

"You can come in. I'll change in the bathroom."

"You should've let us pay for the room—I mean, since it's our fault you can't even go back to your home," said Sam, shutting the door behind him.

Storm smiled as though she thought he was joking. "If I wanted to go back, I could. It's my choice to stay here. Don't worry about the room; I have some money saved up."

Sam waited on the desk chair, tapping his fingers on the surface of the table while he waited, but she seemed to be taking an abnormally long time.

"You alright in there?" he asked.

"Yes," came her voice from the other side of the door, but she sounded uncertain.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. It's just . . . I can't . . . seem to find my body."

Sam frowned, but Storm elaborated when she emerged from the bathroom. She was not even that small, but she looked like a munchkin in Sam's clothing. The red flannel fell all the way to her knees and the sleeves flopped uselessly at her sides. The black sweatpants had to be drawn nearly up to the center of her stomach to allow her to walk and the shape of her legs was concealed completely. The clothing simply looked too big to be allowed.

Sam's cheeks actually ached from the strength he was using to contain his roar of laughter. He didn't trust himself to open his mouth so he just nodded in what he hoped was an approving manner. His amusement wasn't missed by Storm, however and she made to cross her arms over her chest, but she appeared to be having trouble finding it.

"I look like a a deflated beach ball," she said and Sam couldn't contain a snort, but she only smiled and wrinkled her nose at him. She initiated the process of rolling up the sleeves, but she became irritated and merely flopped them to signify her helplessness.

"Sorry we don't carry a smaller size," said Sam.

"This is fine," she said, and once more flopped the sleeves in his direction as if proving this statement.

Sam was smiling but she somehow seemed all of a sudden too shy to look at him and began observing the tacky decoration of the room. "I wonder where Anna is now."

"Wherever it is, hopefully she's safe. And happy."

She half-turned to him, but seemed to second guess it. She sat on the end of the bed, hands on her tightened knees and staring at nowhere in particular. "She saved me by leaving. She knew they would follow her and leave us. Leave me. She may not be able to help me with my memories now, but at least she gave me a chance to find out on my own."

Sam heaved a small sigh. "We'll try and help you all we can with that. I just—well, I mean, I don't really know where to start. Castiel said you fell from Heaven so—I guess we can get with the research."

Storm smiled again but for once it did not reach her eyes, which remained unfocused and somewhere far, far off. "You're too kind to me, Sam. You and your brother both. Especially . . ." She paused and Sam waited, leaning forward a little in his seat with his hand resting on his chin. "You heard what Uriel said, don't pretend."

"Yeah, but he's—Uriel's word isn't exactly the most reliable source."

"But he's also one of the only few that knows what I really am and—Sam, he implied that I would hurt you." She was looking at him now, and there was a remarkable resemblance to a young deer. In her fragile state, she looked youthful again and Sam could not immediately think of a proper response, but she was already talking. "I don't know what I am, where I come from. I made a demon explode by the touch of my palm—Sam, if I ever—I would _never _but if I did—"

"Hey, hey, hey," he soothed with his hand in the air. She was staring at him, waiting for him to speak. "I don't believe you'll do anything to hurt anyone. Uriel wants you, okay? He'd say anything to get us to hand you over to him. So far you haven't done anything but teach a light bulb a lesson and kill a demon. Doesn't look like you've done anything wrong."

But Storm's face was shadowed with a new fear. She gave a small shake of her head, one that made her hair bounce lightly about her shoulders. "I haven't been entirely truthful with you, Sam Winchester." And as he frowned, she said, "I told you the story of when I was attacked by a demon down that alleyway. The demon wasn't a demon. He was just a man, a normal, human man."

Sam waited for an elaboration, but Storm's thoughts seemed elsewhere, so he pressed, "So, it's not just demons you're able to explode? I'm sure you had good reason to do what you did."

"Oh, I had reason," she said with an alarming alteration of tone. He had never heard her so fierce. "I was trying to escape the hospital that night and barely made past the first block when—alright, well, he was . . . forceful. A, uh . . . well, he just acted like it was his birthday when he saw a lost girl wandering the city streets by herself. I was stupid, Sam."

Sam didn't say anything for a few moments, looking into Storm's eyes and feeling like his heart was suddenly much too heavy for his chest. "He didn't—hurt you, did he?"

What a stupid way to say 'So you didn't end up getting raped, did you?'

"As far as I'm concerned, he just roughed me up a bit," said Storm. "I didn't let him get any farther than that. I ran down that alley and when he jumped me, I did the same as I did with that demon and . . . well, you know the rest."

"But it was self defense," said Sam at once.

"I'm not so much rattled by the fact that I killed a man more than I am with how easy it was. It proved how unstable I am, that just by being afraid that I can unleash that kind of power. And not just to demons, to anyone. To you, Sam. To your brother, to anyone around me if I just give one slip. Just one, and then I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

Her eyes lifted to his again and Sam saw the fear she had been masking for so long. Her expression was oddly straight, Sam would even say calm if it weren't for how her eyes had a doleful sweep in them.

"So what Uriel said about me being a time bomb," she said after a short pause, "it makes sense because everything counts on me keeping my emotions in tact, and that's depending on too much. Sam, I shouldn't be traveling with you and Dean, not when I don't even know what I am or how to control myself."

There was a long pause.

"Storm, look," said Sam, but he had no idea what he was going to say. She waited patiently for him to continue, but his hesitance was prolonged. At last, he said, "What you've been through, what you're still going through . . . it'd be enough to rattle anyone, but if we can just find out what you are and get your memories back, you'll have a better chance at harnessing whatever needs to be harnessed. That would probably be a whole lot easier to do if you stick around. I don't think you'll give the slip."

Sam didn't know what to make of the following silence, of Storm's unblinking eyes that remained on his in that manner that seemed to disturb his privacy, or how oddly still she suddenly became, like his words had acted as a pause button on her.

Finally she said, quite gently, "Your confidence is a pretty thing, Sam Winchester. Thank you for saying that."

Sam folded his fingers in front of him, nodding softly with an unsure glance at the floor.

"I just don't know how much I believe it," she said.

"Well you can't just take off—not with Heaven looking for you."

She smiled a little, and it was some relief for Sam to see, however wistful it may look. "I don't know if I have the trust in me you seem to have—but maybe it's enough trust for the both of us. I agree with you in terms of it would be stupid for me to go off on my own, but I can't stand the fact that I may be endangering you."

"If you don't figure out who you are, it could be even more dangerous," he pointed out and her gaze spoke with uncertainty. "I can—I mean me and Dean—can help you out with that."

"But why, Sam?" she said and Sam blinked to show his confusion. "You have no obligation to help me. You don't really know me, _I _don't know me. Having me around is a potential threat, one you're willing to risk for an amnesic girl who now has the angels of Heaven on her butt."

The smile on Sam's face felt a little strained, and his breathy chuckle a little dry. With a small shake of his head, he sighed and shrugged as he said, "It's, uh, been kind of a frequent thing these past few years. Maybe even call it a hobby, or a commitment."

"Helping people?"

Sam thought over his words and quickly added, "Not that that's—the _only, _um, reason. I just—it's not like you're any other person. Of course I'm glad to help you, I guess it's . . ." Sam swallowed to aid his suddenly parched throat.

But Storm's kind smile dismissed his embarrassment, yet she said mercilessly, "What other reason would there be?"

_For a seemingly innocent girl, you can be pretty wicked, _Sam thought with dark amusement.

"I mean, we have history," he said with another shrug. _What a stupid answer, Sam Winchester, you idiot._

"We do," she agreed, and even if she didn't add anything more on the subject, her little smile begged an elaboration. "Did any of the people you helped have the ability to make another being explode?"

"Um . . . no. That's a first, actually."

They looked at one another, and Sam could see the reluctant submission in her eyes and felt a great wave of relief.

"So, I'll—well, force myself to keep my emotions in check and hopefully I live up to the confidence you have in me."

Storm sounded determined, but unsure of herself. She turned to him with a new subject, "What can I expect traveling with you two?"

"Uh . . . you want the honest answer?"

"No, tell me the exact opposite of what will happen," she said leaning forward with a small grin, like a hyperactive kid about to experience the drop on a roller coaster.

Sam hesitated and then blew out a breath. "Well . . . we're always staying at five star hotels. Money's never an issue, the food's always good. Dean and I always get along, there's never any danger, life is safe and secure, and we spend two week vacations in Bora Bora." Their eyes met. "Everyone always gets their happy ending."

Storm's vague smile still remained, but the twinkle was gone from her dark green eyes, replaced with a shadow.

"I want to know more about you," she said.

"Me?"

"Yes, you, Sam Winchester."

"Why?" he laughed.

"Because you're a book with pages written in invisible ink; I know you have a story to tell, but it's not for just anyone to read. The fact that no one can read it immediately only starves my curiosity further."

Sam stared at her. "Wonder if you were a poet?"

"I wouldn't know. Maybe I'll give it a shot someday. Beside the point, though."

She glanced at the clock where it showed it was nearly midnight. As she was adjusting her shirt, Sam said grudgingly, "It's late. I should let you get some sleep."

Her fingers still at her collar, she looked at him, seeming to be a little conflicted with something. "I don't really—" She appeared to second guess whatever she was about to say. "Goodnight, Sam."

"Uh, yeah." He rose slowly to his feet. "Night."

They only took another ten seconds or so to look at each other and smile, and then Sam left and Storm didn't wear the smile any longer. She stood in the middle of that room, feeling more alone than when she left the California hospital, had left Sam, her first and only friend so far.

_Things like me that show only signs of destruction—what are we for? What do we exist for?_

But what other thing did she have to compare herself to when she didn't even know what she was? And how could Sam show her so much faith when she herself had no trust in her unknown abilities? Was he delusional or simply too trusting? She didn't want to stay here, even as much as the thought of leaving Sam's—or either of the brothers' sides—was of no comfort. But how could she stick around when her presence did nothing but aspire danger?

The mattress soon swallowed the shape of her body. She was feeling more tired than than she had in awhile, which came as a relief to her; perhaps her dreams could work out what her thoughts could not.

But she hesitated on the brink of sleep, half-closed eyes still on the recently closed door. She raised the collar of Sam's shirt just over her nose, breathing in, breathing him in. What his scent brought was familiarity, safety, security, unadulterated protection. Sam had been the first person she had ever met who wasn't a doctor, one who showed genuine kindness opposed to someone whose job it was to do so.

The smell of his shirt with his scent clinging to every stitch in the material was beautifully drowning her, creating a perfect illusion that he could have been sitting right beside her. Storm had never once had such an aroma nip at her nose; it was like masculine cologne, sweat, and natural grime being transcend into steam from a scalding shower. It made Storm drunk with longing.

She fell peacefully into sleep, experiencing dreams she was not used to. Dreams where Sam's face made frequent appearances, his smell still known to her. It was not at all vivid, but she could still make sense of where his fingers were traveling, what part of her skin that he was kissing, and how every pore seemed to be flaming over the flood of her broiling blood.

Storm woke a little while later when it was still dark out, a little guilty and very confused.

.

"Honestly, man . . . can't really make heads or tails of it."

Sam was in the process of squeezing out blue toothpaste onto his overused toothbrush and paused as he screwed the cap back on. Before lifting the brush to his teeth, he murmured out as if he didn't really want Dean to hear him, "About Storm?"

"Yeah, her," said Dean impatiently from the room, and there was a groan of old springs as Dean laid down on one of the beds. "I mean, okay, we knew what Anna was and why the angel dicks were hunting her down. We don't even have a lead on Storm. Besides your heroic escapade with her some few years back."

Sam continued to brush his teeth in order to stall answering, spit, washed his mouth, and then rubbed his eyes tiredly before exiting the bathroom.

"You're not basing this on what Uriel said, are you?" said Sam edgily. Dean was lying on the bed closest to him with arms behind his head, fully dressed apart from his shoes that were off and revealing mismatched socks that smelled.

Dean gave a small shift. "I don't think we can trust anything that asshat says—but, I mean, she's gotta be somethin', right?"

"Yeah," agreed Sam halfheartedly, not sure and slightly nervous about what his brother was getting at. "Definitely."

Dean was studying him with slightly lifted brows, as if expecting Sam to add something else. When he did not, Dean said in an undertone, "Did she tell you she could make a demon go pop like that?"

Sam hesitated, and then shrugged and said, "A couple days ago she told me that the same thing happened about two years back in an alleyway by her hospital. It was out of self defense."

Dean was wearing a calm frown. "'Nother demon?"

Again, Sam paused. Then he forced out, "Uh, no."

Dean's eyebrows were raising again. "Human?"

"I mean, dude, wouldn't you stab someone who was attacking you?"

"Yeah, I sure as hell would stab someone. With a knife. Storm didn't use a knife, though, did she? S'kinda a little weird when you think about it, don't you think? I mean, not even an angel can make just a demon go splat like that. They can exorcise 'em, sure. So far the only thing that we know of that can really kill a demon is Ruby's knife."

"Dean," said Sam, blinking a little with a small shake of his head and letting out a mingle of a chuckle and a sigh, "what exactly are you getting at? That we should be careful around Storm?"

Dean looked conflicted. There was a long and impatient pause on Sam's part before Dean said, "I don't know, man. I don't see Storm as the type who would do anything to hurt anybody. But, uh . . . just wouldn't want to see you hurt is all. Physical or . . . you know."

Sam frowned a little, but he didn't want there to be another prolonged silence so he said quickly, "Then we just have to get on the research of what she is and make sure nothing happens."

It was a long time before Dean finally said with a single nod of his head, "Alright, man. You're the one who rode the white steed and saved her. Whatever you think we should do."

But Sam was quite sure as he was crawling into his bed that he heard Dean say in a halfhearted mumble, "Just hope you know what you're doin'."

And so did Sam.

.

As did Castiel.

He was staring at a sculpture, minty-gray and slightly abstract, but it took the general form of a woman with exaggerated curves and closed eyes, a face that seemed to be fixed up in pain. He wondered what sort of inspiration took over the human that had made this, why he or she had deemed it necessary to bring into existence. He tilted his head a little to the left, as if thinking it may look better that way when Uriel spoke to him.

"She isn't here."

"I know," said Castiel.

"We shouldn't have let the other one go. Now we have no lead on either of them." When Castiel didn't answer immediately, he went on, "You almost went against the orders; you almost told her what she is."

Castiel looked up, but Uriel didn't take away his gaze immediately. His eyes were on a bundle of furrowed up blankets that were wrapped around a very old woman who sat on a bench, her wrinkled and liver-spotted hand outstretched to sprinkle the doses of birdseed on the ground. There was a crowd of pigeons surrounding her skinny ankles, swallowing down the seeds and humming their sleepy songs. There was a single white dove amongst them, but it didn't seem very hungry. Its orange eyes were set on the sky, ruffling its feathers and Castiel wondered if it might fly away until he saw that its right wing was broken. He looked back at Uriel.

"She will never know unless we tell her," he said.

"Which would only be done if you've set pity on the girl." Pause. "Have you?"

Castiel had trouble finding his answer.

"I see," said Uriel with a laugh as dark as his eyes. "Telling her won't benefit anyone."

"It would to her."

"In what manner of speaking? Alright, she is your 'daughter', not mine. Maybe I can't understand where you're coming from, but I do know what we have been ordered to do."

Castiel's eyes shot to Uriel's and his lips were very thin as he spoke. "She is not my daughter."

"But you share blood," he said with a twisted smile that made Castiel look back to the old woman again.

"That was not my choice." Pause. "It wasn't anyone's."

"Castiel! Look at yourself; you're wallowing in the pity for those who don't need it. You're building your own weaknesses."

"You make yourself the one worthy of judging who is to be pitied?"

Uriel looked at him as if he thought he was joking. "The girl, even after she was taken, has never known what she has become, so why do you feel the need to tell her now? Because she escaped Heaven? Because it was Sam Winchester who found her? None of these things were supposed to happen, and it goes against order. We have more luck protecting your precious Winchesters the sooner we find her and take her back." Uriel heaved an unnecessary breath that made his chest rise, but it restored calmness to his face. "Return Anna and the Athedas to Heaven; that is all we have to do and you should not be considering other options; there are none. Forget about it."

Castiel's silence spoke his uncertainty for him, but for once, Uriel did not act on it.

"We should leave," said Uriel. "We have to keep searching."

"I agree."

But Castiel was looking now at the pure white dove waddling a further distance from the other birds, its broken wing hung out at an odd angle. He walked towards it without really thinking and was surprised when it did not struggle as he bent down and picked it up. It cooed softly in his cupped hands, the vibrations tickling his fingers and eyes drooping slightly, as though ready to take an afternoon nap.

It felt very odd in his hands, but it was nothing physical. It didn't seem to carry any weight at all, and if it did, it was energy. It was warm like a coal that had been cooling in a fire pit for a few hours, and its soft white feathers reminded him of someone's hair. Its little feet and toes had grasped around the thickness of his middle finger, but almost in a—dare he say—comforting manner?

There was something about the bird that hit Castiel strangely in his mind. Its life force was lacking, as if it was not alive. Indeed, it had no heartbeat, but energy was beaming like starlight from it, warming him from his fingers and up his arms.

It was like an angel's grace.

Castiel wondered.

He could feel Uriel's eyes on him as he lifted his left hand to its wounded wing and felt heat shoot like streamers from his fingers and onto the injury. It was healed at once, and as though it sensed this, it flapped its wing hesitantly to test the waters.

Then it took off from his hands, high into the air, soaring over the trees and buildings until it became a mere white dot in the azure morning sky.

"It will take us to Storm," said Castiel.


	7. Back to Graves

**I hope I jab you right in the feelings with this one.**

_-Seven-_

Back to Graves

"Scream, little birdy. Scream if it makes you feel any better."

And Storm did scream. She screamed as lava was poured into her chest, her body acting as the cauldron. Yet she couldn't hear because she had deafened herself with her own shrieks of agony. She could feel the force of it ripping her throat, though, as her ribs caved in, snapping beneath invisible force. Her muscle, bone, and skin were forming and deforming like dough beneath kneading fingers.

There was no surface to be on, no weight beneath her or air to be breathed or temperature to feel. There was only existence, and in this existence there was a millions threads and needles sewing through every pore on her skin, weaving through muscle and skin. Her eyelids must have been sewn shut, too, because she could see no longer. Or maybe the lava pouring through her body had melted them.

Every breath was taken at the risk of heaving up red-hot nails that swelled and scarred the delicate walls of her throat. Her fingernails were being jammed up her cuticles, her lips being ripped from her face, teeth being broken and forced to swallow them, and her flesh splitting from her muscle, strip by strip with uncomprehending slowness. Over and over again until her body was an ugly bloody mess of tissue. But did she have a body? She must have, because she felt these things, but that was its only purpose in existing.

Oh but, God, there was no reason for this pain—none that she could remember, but you needed a brain to remember, and surely the burn of the inconceivable torture had fried it eons ago. Had it been eons? Ten years, a hundred? Five minutes? If time did exist, and there would be real no reason for it, it would be measured out in every moment that Storm cried out for home, a hope, a touch that was not a branding iron, to die, for a _second, just a mere second, God, in which this soul-shattering excruciation does not possess my body._

Storm would wish for all these things if she could thread a mere sentence in her head, and the pain had revoked her of that chance for twenty years.

She didn't believe her brain when she awoke, and the thing that convinced herself of her consciousness was that she could finally hear her screams. The second she realized this, she stopped. Her throat was sore, terribly sore. There was a sound like numerous objects falling onto the floor, the crash of thick glass. She was being shaken, which had also ceased the moment her eyes had opened and landed on the most beautiful thing her eyes had ever kissed.

"Sam Winchester," she said faintly, not feeling the relief most do when awoken from a nightmare. She was really there, she had really just felt that pain of wherever Hell pit her unconscious soul had just been nailed to. Her hands, her toes, her very tongue was trembling behind her lips that worked so hard to break free and speak to Sam who was gazing down at her with mild terror. She didn't want him to be afraid, she wanted to reach out and touch him, comfort him, but her shaking arms reminded her this was not a task she had the strength to do.

"Storm, what the hell—"

The very word made her flinch and Sam stopped. A grimace spread across his face and she realized she was digging her nails into each of his forearms, to which she released immediately.

"I don't want to remember," she whispered, not sure if it was directed to Sam, her, or God himself. It was not a statement, but a plea. Exhaustion begged for the back of her head to find the pillow again, but she didn't want to look away from Sam.

"Storm . . ." But he was cut off again, this time by one of his own thoughts.

She was breathing heavily, moving her hand down his arm and fiercely locking her fingers through his, using him as an anchor as though terrified she might drift away again.

There. She had finally held hands with a boy.

Sam allowed the action without question, even tightened his hand over hers with a small nod that told her that everything was going to be okay, even if he did not know yet the reason why she wouldn't be okay. They searched each other's faces for only five seconds, Sam opening his mouth to ask yet again what had happened, but it was only then that Storm realized they were not alone.

The door that showed signs of being forced open revealed only a few faces, ones unfamiliar and at the time, unwelcome. Random people with concern on their expressions; a plump woman in a stained pink bathrobe with a set of matching hair curlers in her hair. A tall and lanky man that might be her husband, and a short fellow with a shiny bald head and neatly trimmed toothbrush mustache.

"What's happening? What's happening?" he was saying, nearing the threshold and Sam sat up a little, facing them.

But the next figure appeared was Dean, looking incredibly flustered and only surveyed the small crowd for a second before looking directly at Storm who was still having trouble accepting this painless reality. He was holding what looked like an ice pack to his forehead, staring at her as if she was a time bomb about to go off, and then looked back at the crowd, waving his hand at them.

"Alright, alright. Nothin' to see here," he told them all, to which they responded with outbreaks of anger and worry, but Storm was still grateful because he had taken their attention away from her.

She sat up, and was pleased she had the strength to do so. She made to get up, but Sam eased her back into the mattress.

"I need to get some water."

"I'll get it for you" said Sam at once, releasing her hand. He was shaken.

Dean entered and closed the door as best as he could, seeing as the lock had been broken from it. Storm registered the mess of the room that had certainly not been there when she fell asleep. The walls were clean from the tacky pictures that had hung on them before, and she saw that they lay in various places on the floor, one on the lopsided armchair that was on the opposite side of the room from where it started. There was a smashed vase along with a spread of plastic flowers on the stained carpeting. The blankets were completely off her, one hanging on the ceiling fan that was ceasing to turn. There was a large dent in one of the walls, as though a heavy object had been thrown against it. Storm noted that the dresser on its side was not too far from it.

Overall, it looked as if a literal tornado had swept through the room in her slumber.

"What?" was the singular syllable that Storm could manage as Sam pushed a cool glass of water into her fingers, but she did not drink immediately. He sat on the end of her bed, scratching a spot just under his hairline on the back of his neck.

"When you were still asleep, the, uh—well everything started spinning around and you were screaming your head off," explained Sam tentatively.

"Basically I was expectin' to see the the Wicked Witch of the West on her bike and wake up in Munckin Country," Dean muttered, tightening the ice pack to his head, sighing out before throwing it carelessly on the mattress. There was a red bump on the corner of his forehead.

"Did you . . ." Storm touched the area on her forehead where his wound was and he shrugged.

"Just a runaway lamp—hurling at me about one hundred miles per hour. What is it with you and lamps?"

"Dean," said Sam just as Storm looked as though she might break the glass under her fingers.

"What's that for?" she asked Dean, drawing breath as she saw he was vaguely holding a silver metal bucket.

He looked down at it.

"Oh this? I was, uh, sort of gonna fill it with water and pour it over your face because, well you know. When every piece of furniture start flyin' around the room, you know it's a good time to wake up."

Storm took a sip of water to excuse herself, and Sam looked back at her, heaving a breath and trying to make his tone as gentle as his voice box would permit. "Storm—what happened?"

"I don't know," she said at once, having her answer ready planned from the beginning. She took another swerving look around the destroyed room, to Dean's forehead, and then to Sam's waiting gaze.

"A hell of a lot was happening for you not to know why," said Dean and Sam looked a little agitated, but he didn't take his eyes from Storm.

"Hell," she said, and now Dean's face really hardened.

"Come again?"

"I think I was dreaming of it, but it didn't feel like I was asleep. I could have been . . ."

Sam finished her unsaid fear with unease. "Remembering something?"

"I was." Storm only confirmed it because she didn't want to delay the sting of truth any longer; she already knew it was true.

"Castiel said you fell from Heaven, though," said Sam, frowning.

"Yeah, and when exactly have we been able to count one hundred percent on just the angels' word?"scoffed Dean.

"True."

"So, be kind, please rewind; you think you were in Hell?" Dean asked Storm.

"I can't answer that; I don't know, but I hope it wasn't Heaven." That would leave little for humans to look forward to.

"And you're sure this just wasn't any too-much-chocolate-before-bed kinda nightmare?"

"I'm sure."

"What the hell have those angel dicks been up to?"

Storm granted herself a moment to close her eyes, gather herself, summon her strength back, and convince herself that she was here with Sam and Dean. She opened them again and took another gulp of water, still feeling shaken but better. Sam's fingers were close to hers but neither of them initiated the action of holding hands again. Still, his presence drew in her comfort and she took another deep breath, looking at Dean.

"I'm sorry about your head, Dean."

He shrugged again. "It'll be be fit as rain." He paused, running an absent finger over the bump before shifting. "You ever have one of these dreams before?"

"Never."

"So why now?" said Sam.

"Sounds like you're comin' close to breakin' the walls of your amnesia," said Dean, oblivious to the horror that bit up Storm's spine at his words.

Storm wanted to remember, she had wanted to remember for three years. Starving curiosity and confusion had eaten and consumed her for so long, eventually transitioning into ugly fury, but the dream had only lasted maybe around ten seconds—or so it seemed—and she was still shaking. She wiped away a trickle of blood on the back of her hand that was not there. Yet her hand still thumping from the spike that had been hammered through it. She pressed her thumb to a sore point between her middle and ring finger, gently massaging it.

"Storm, do you still—I mean, you should still probably get to the bottom of this, but whatever you want to do," said Sam. "It's up to you."

"You mean still try and figure out what I am?"

Sam shrugged his answer.

"I have to."

But it wasn't for personal gain anymore; now it was a matter of Sam and Dean's safety and if if they were to continue being in each other's presence, she had to find out what she was and learn how to tame it. The fact that she had been spinning furniture around, supposedly under the influence of her emotions, while unconscious was extremely frightening. How was she supposed to control what she was dreaming and how it would effect her? She was lucky that she did not end up making Sam blow up and wondered if something more drastic would have happened if she hadn't awoken when she did.

"Okay," said Sam simply.

.

It was a while later Sam, Storm, and Dean were in a bright corner of a 50's styled diner in the back of a sleepy Missouri town, nearly in Kansas. Since before leaving their motel, Sam had searched the Internet high and low, left and right for anything even coming close with defining Athedas, but the plate was turning up squeaky clean.

There were waves in Sam's hair of where he had been continuously running his fingers through in frustration. He wasn't even paying attention to his Greek salad.

"Sam, you know—we could, well, _help?" _said Dean, just finishing patting his chest with his fist after a large bite from his cheeseburger. "You've been at the research for," he checked his watch, "three hours now. I know you're like invincible Nerd Man, but even you have got to have your limits of computer time."

"It's not Greek, Egyptian, Roman, Bulgarian, French, or from any other culture or foreign country I can find."

"Because it has to be foreign?" said Dean.

Sam looked up from his laptop for first time, glancing from Dean to Storm who was sitting beside him making a tower with the ketchup bottle and salt and pepper shakers. She had finished her steak and kidney pie before Dean had even gotten halfway through his burger, which was stating a national record.

"There's gotta be something," Sam said, the laptop stealing away his attention again. He sighed. "But every time I type in Athedas it thinks I mean Adidas."

Dean snorted, knowing that his brother was taking the lack of information he was getting from his high and almighty Internet as a personal insult.

Dean looked at Storm with a curling smile. "So unless you're some ancient and holy footwear, I'd say this isn't researchable, Sammy."

"I don't see why that isn't a possibility," said Storm and Dean snorted again into his burger. She looked at Sam. "Athedas could be a term used only by angels, which wouldn't be in just any website or from any language."

"It's the only lead we have so far," said Sam, granting himself a sip from his iced tea.

"Not necessarily," she said. "Did you ever take a look at the place on the highway that I landed on?"

Sam gently fell back in his seat, wonder stealing away his brain as he looked at her.

"No," he said finally, eyebrow peeking. "Think there would be any clues? Especially after three years?"

"California's a long drive from here—especially for somethin', for all we know, may not be there," pointed out Dean.

"What else are we gonna do?" said Sam who was already shutting his laptop with a snap. "We can't stay in one place for too long, either. Heaven's gotta be all riled up what with the escape of both Anna and Storm."

"You're payin' for gas," Dean said, throwing a twenty and ten on the table.

Sam gave his brother an extremely sour look.

.

Sam wasn't expecting an emotional throw when they reached Stanford, California four days later, but a tinge of apprehension mingling with a kind of good ache bubbled feebly in his stomach. As Dean drove, Sam admired from afar the little ice cream shop Jess and him had gone to a couple times. He didn't have any spectacularly cute memories of them there, but it was where they had their first date once Sam had summoned the courage to ask her out. As his first real relationship, it was a big deal to him and he had been nervous that after a life trained as a soldier with his father that he could never learn to be a boyfriend. Jess never asked anything from him other than to be himself.

"You alright, man?" Dean asked.

"Yeah."

Sam glanced in the rear view mirror. Storm was breathing lightly on the window, drawing abstract designs in the condensation, seeming immersed. She startled him by making sudden eye-contact with him in the mirror, but her gaze was gentle, even understanding, like she knew what he was thinking. Yet she didn't say anything, slouching down in the leather seat and propping _Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde _on her stomach, which looked like she only had a chapter or two left.

.

"You sure this is the place?" said Dean, shutting the car door and looking up and down the road as if expecting to see a clue waltzing down the street.

"Uh, yeah. Pretty sure. Well, it was dark and stormy, and over three years ago," said Sam.

Storm was glancing slowly left and right, as though sure she was going to be able to identify something, anything.

"Maybe a little ways up," said Sam.

The three of them walked alongside the road in silence and Sam was scouring the sight with quick speed, trying to remember the exact location he had been driving when he saw Storm fall through the tree branches that hovered over the road. His footsteps became hesitant, peering over his shoulder.

"What?" said Dean who had stopped walking a little ways up, noticing Sam wasn't following.

"Here," said Sam slowly, examining a tall oak tree that was seated little more than five feet from the road, its wispy branches fluttering in the vague trees, the bright underside of the leaves shining in the sun's light.

"Here?" repeated Storm.

"I think so."

"Time to get out the big magnifying glass, then," said Dean.

The three of them looked all along the road on both sides, the great oak tree Storm had fallen through, but so far there wasn't anything to be seen, and Sam started to wonder if they really were al just wasting their time. Apparently Dean was thinking along the same lines.

"So far we've got . . . a bunch of weeds and a nasty red ant bite on my right ankle," said Dean.

"What do you think, Storm?" Sam asked.

"I'd hate to think we came all the way here for nothing, but I'm not being overpowered by any mystical forces that would lead me to an answer, if that's what you're asking."

Sam glanced heavenward, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and frowning into the distance. The only disturbance amongst the clear screen of azure was an airplane thousands of feet above, leaving a white wispy trial behind it. For fall, it was a warm afternoon, the breeze even carrying hints of warmth.

It was the exact opposite kind of day that Sam had found Storm here three years ago.

"If you got popped outta Heaven some years back, how'd you end up naming yourself Storm?" Dean was asking Storm, the two of them a little ways ahead of Sam.

"I didn't. Sam named me."

Dean looked abruptly back at Sam over his shoulder. "_You _named her?"

Sam shifted defensively. "Well, she didn't have one. She asked me to."

"And you name the amnesiac girl with white hair _Storm? _Were you goin' through your _X-Men _phase or somethin'?"

"I found her in a storm so it seemed—I don't know. Appropriate? Plus it it sounded pretty cool," Sam added lamely.

Dean breathed out a chuckle, shaking his head. "Now that's just hella funny."

"What was I supposed to name her?"

"Well for starters, it's hilarious that you were the one to 'name' her in the first place," Dean grinned. "And baby name books are cool, too."

"Shut up," Sam said with a shake of his head, advancing past his brother.

"I like it," said Storm. "I was given the option of changing my name to anything that I wanted, but I've always kept Storm."

"Adorable," said Dean, still smirking at Sam.

"Shut. Up."

Dean laughed at his brother's embarrassment but Storm found it cute. She loved every occasion Sam's cheeks filled vaguely with color because it brought forth an entirely youthful-looking version of him, which was a break from the usual screen of strain on his features.

Just when Sam was thinking of admitting this whole goose chase had been a whim of desperation, he saw perhaps the first clue that indicated coming here wasn't for nothing. At first glance it had seemed the reflection from a coin on the road, but it was much too bright for any quarter.

Looking both ways to make sure he wasn't going to get run over, he walked to the center of the road that was directly opposite the oak tree.

"What'cha got, Scully?" Dean said.

Sam bent down, running his fingers along the rough surface of the road where inky black lines had been indented to form,

"Huh. It kinda," Sam frowned, "looks like an—anchor."

"An anchor?" Dean asked dubiously.

Storm was already standing beside Sam, peering over his shoulder at the markings in the road. The thin lines were deep within the tar, as if a white-hot branding iron had melted through it. It was made up of lines and diamond shapes, hooking at the bottom which gave it him the impression of anchor, but it looked more like a symbol for something. It was oddly shiny, and looked wet at the touch but was very dry when Sam touched it, almost hot.

Sam couldn't actually remember it, but it was overwhelming instinct that told him this may be the exact place Storm had landed in the road.

Dean had come to take a look, too.

"Looks like a bad tramp stamp."

Sam and Storm looked at him.

"Not that I would know."

Sam felt Storm's fingers on his shoulder and peered up at her. "Mean anything to you?"

She looked hesitant but didn't say anything, but her silence confirmed his question. His eyes flickered to her fingers that were shifting the side of her shirt upward, exposing her left hip bone. It was about as tall as Sam's middle finger, swollen and white with a pinkish tinge with an unnatural shine to it. It was a scar, no thicker than stranded string, and an obvious but bad duplicate of the symbol on the road.

Yet the scar itself was insignificant, and Sam had a feeling he only noticed the similarities because he had the symbol in the road to compare it to. It looked like it was made by a few lazy scratches of sharp fingernails.

"The first day that I woke up, my doctor told me that while they were running tests, they noticed this," said Storm. "I didn't, and haven't until now, had any clue."

She lowered her shirt.

"Why didn't you mention it before?" Dean asked.

"Because I wasn't expecting a scar that I'd forgotten about to be imprinted on this road."

"I think we just passed the line of abnormal," said Sam, returning to his feet.

A car came down the road so they started walking back to the Impala, but not before Sam had copied the symbol onto a yellow notepad.

"This is definitely the kind of thing we were looking for," said Sam. "I'll get on the research when we find a motel."

_And also take the time to visit Old Keeper's cemetery again._

_._

"Slavery."

Storm looked up from her book and Dean's head peeked out from the bathroom door.

"What?"

Sam nudged the laptop so the screen was clear for their inspection.

"In nearly every ancient culture, including Roman, Greek, and even sometimes Egyptian, anchor-like symbols were branded on slaves' skin. Most of the time it was put on the side of the neck or even the cheek in case any ever escaped, they would be easy to distinguish."

There was a long pause. Sam's chair creaked as he shifted his weight on it as he looked at Storm.

"So I was a slave to Heaven?" she said finally.

"I—don't know."

"Why would Heaven need any slaves if they already have asshat angels goin' around and followin' every order without question?" Dean said.

"Also . . . why would Uriel and Castiel be so bent on getting you back?" said Sam. "I mean, from what it seems, they both seem like pretty big time angels and if you _were _a, uh, slave," he swallowed apologetically, "getting you back seems like a trivial job for them. Obviously there's more to it."

"But it would explain why I'm having memories of pain, especially if I was in Heaven. Maybe they tortured me."

"I dunno. Angels seem to have pride comin' out of their asses," said Dean with a shrug. "Sounds to me like whatever happened three years back, you somehow escaped and majorly pissed them off." He beamed. "Hey, good for you."

"That's a major possibility," said Sam, feeling at long last like they were getting somewhere. He was looking for some sign for Storm, whether relieved or apprehensive, but her expression cloaked her emotions. "And just like Anna, maybe when you 'fell' it wiped out your memories completely."

"Still, Athedas sounds like a title, one they wouldn't give to any slave," said Storm. "And like Dean said, why would Heaven have any use for slaves?"

"Still a crap ton of questions," confirmed Dean. "We still don't know jack squat on _what _you are."

"But we have a bigger lead," added Storm and Sam admired her optimism.

"Also, I don't mean to be the one to bring a downer on the conversation," started Dean slowly. "But say we finally figure everything out. Great, but we're still gonna have Heaven high tailing our asses. If they find us again, we don't exactly have an angel that knows how to banish them into oblivion again."

Sam narrowed his eyes at him, but the truth of his words settled a very uncomfortable weight in his chest.

"Well, we should figure out what we can about Storm and then work our way from there," said Sam, who didn't want their one moment of relief to be tarnished by potential threats.

"I'm thinkin' ahead is all."

"Dean's right," said Storm. "We don't have any way of fighting angels if they found us again, and it won't matter even if we do figure out what I am."

"'Less you can also make angels go kablooie," Dean said. He perked an eyebrow at Sam, as though this was a possible concept they both shared.

"It's not out of the realm of possibility," shrugged Sam, but he was doubtful. He didn't want Storm to experiment with her unknown abilities if and until they figured out more about her. Even less did he want to throw her at the angels 'just to see if it's possible to make them kablooie.'

"I need a beer," stated Dean after a prolonged silence, scratching the tip of his nose. "Anyone?"

"Never had one," said Storm. Dean looked as though she had insulted him.

"One for you, then," said Dean firmly. "Sam?"

"Yeah, sure," he said distractedly.

Making Storm try the beer was a bad choice on Dean's part because she nearly spit it out on the floor. The moment the foamy liquid touched her tongue she made a face as though she had swallowed a lemon. Dean gave Sam an extremely pointed look as Storm scurried off to spit it out in the sink.

"She's not a keeper," Dean mouthed.

"It tastes like cardboard dipped in goat pee!" Storm shouted angrily from the bathroom, as if she had heard him.

Sam laughed.

"Guess we've all got our favorite poisons," shrugged Dean.

.

Sam was irritated with himself, or more so his wardrobe. He was not at all uncleanly and washed what little clothes he had whenever he got the chance, but as he dug through his bag there was hardly a shirt he owned that did not have stains. Many of them even had bloodstains. No wait, no. That was just pizza sauce . . .

He settled for a navy blue button down shirt that was clean but in need of a good ironing along with plain jeans.

"You headin' out?" Dean asked from his laying position on one of the beds.

"Yeah. Well I was gonna, you know. If we're here in Stanford I want to—" Sam hesitated and Dean surveyed him, the corner of his lips just barely curled upward in a vague smile. "Yeah. Out."

Sam was unsure of that little smile on Dean's face, of the nearly sad, almost sympathetic, sweep in his eyes. He wondered if there was a discreet mutual understanding between them.

"Alright," said Dean. His eyes said, '_I get it, man.'_

Sam stood there for a moment, and then nodded his head awkwardly.

There was a warm breeze, soft as feathers, brushing along Sam's face as he exited their motel room and onto the small wooden porch. Storm was sitting cross-legged just outside her room, her head bent down low over a sketch pad, the end of her white hair getting in the way of her pencil's trail.

Sam was somehow not surprised to see her sitting there and had no desire to slip away before she saw him.

"Hey," he said.

She messily wiped some hair from face, looking up at him with a pencil between her teeth, holding it by the eraser. She smiled her greeting and vaguely wiped away some eraser shedding from her work.

"Drawing again?" he asked.

"Trying. I was never good. I have no eye for details."

She did not show him the sketching but Sam didn't ask her to.

"Where are you going?" she asked without looking at him.

For some reason, Sam didn't mind being outward with her. "Jess was, uh, buried in a cemetery a block away."

Storm's finger made a few swerving motions on her paper, tucking a thick strand of hair behind her ear. She was awhile before saying anything to him and when she did, she said, "Just a minute, please."

Sam frowned to himself but she seemed to take his silence as agreement. She didn't speak for another five minutes as she worked on her drawing, but Sam only watched her. There was nothing significant about how she looked when she drew, no fascinating passion in her eyes as the pencil moved across the paper. In fact, she looked a little like a child sitting Indian style before him with her back hunched over. But she looked calm, like she was enjoying herself, and there was something admirable about that. Merely watching her passed the time quickly for Sam.

Eventually she stood up, closing the sketch pad and tucking it under her arm. She looked at him, unsmiling but not unkindly, and said, "Can I come?"

Sam thought of the time he had introduced Jess to Storm. It had only lasted for an hour, but it was evident to Sam as he watched the two that they had been taken with each other, both fascinated with the stories one another had to tell, even if Storm's wasn't a long one. It had been difficult to repeat their meetings because at the time Jess was working overtime, but she had still made time to say goodbye to Storm.

Sam imagined that Storm would like to do the same for Jess.

"Yeah," said Sam, feeling oddly breathless. "Yeah, of course. I'd think that'd mean a lot to Jess." He failed to mention how much her offer actually meant to him, too.

"Do we need the car?"

"No, it's only about a five minute walk from here."

"I like walking."

It was almost twilight so the sky was a brilliant cool portrait of pinkish orange, yellow, and violet that spread far above over the buildings in the distance. Although there was silence between Storm and Sam as they walked side-by-side on the sidewalk, the air was filled with the sounds of sleepy traffic on a far away, more busy road.

Sam was glad of the quietness between them, though not because he didn't want to talk to Storm. His heart was pounding hard but slow in his chest and making his palms a little sweaty, and he was busy summoning courage for something he never knew he was afraid of doing.

Why would he be afraid of going back to Jess's grave? Maybe in a way, her death symbolized the end of the normal, safe life he had desperately trying to find, and going back would be rubbing the salt in the wounds he thought to be healed a long time ago. But in reality they were still open, bleeding profusely, and throbbing like his picking up heartbeat. He didn't want his reunion with her three years later to be ruined by his nerves, though.

He was very upset when he saw that the flower shop across from the cemetery was closed because he had been intending to buy her some more. Not roses, though.

"Sam?"

Sam was hesitating at the black iron gate of the cemetery and Storm turned to look back at him.

"Are you afraid of going back?" she asked him.

"Yeah."

How did she wrangle the truth from him so easily?

"You want to turn around?" Her tone didn't imply that this was an offer.

He shook his head and a nervous and slightly embarrassed chuckle dropped from his lips.

"Come on," she said, taking no notice of his embarrassment. She made a gesture as if to take his hand and lead him in, but she wanted him to take the steps without a guide.

He met her eyes, her gaze like green lake water, marginally drowning the little flickers of fear he was so unreasonably feeling. He hadn't felt this way even when he first visited her grave before taking off with Dean so many years ago, which felt like a lifetime away.

Sam felt strangely old and brittle, like his limbs would creak and crack if he took another step forward, but Storm was still standing there, her stare screaming a thousand words though her lips never moved.

It felt like her eyes were drawing out the bravery from inside him. Soon he was drawing breath, walking side-by-side with her again down the thin and neat cemetery pathway.

The pink and yellow hues had dissipated into the horizon, leaving darker blues and purples in its place. The sun was swallowed up under the line of earth, but there was still light, enough for Sam to read the names and dates along the graves that Storm and him passed together.

They found Jess very quickly and with no effort. Sam was both terrified and elated about this. He didn't know why he had expected the gravestone it to be different, to be aged, for the letters to be nearly undecipherable. Yet it could have been placed here yesterday.

He was here, flowerless, feeling like he suddenly he should have gone to some extents to bring her something.

They both stared down at her name and dates, listening to a cricket sing in the short, manicured emerald grass from nearby. The silence was hurting Sam, feeling he should say something, but what was there to say? Bundles of needles seemed to be jammed in his arteries, stopping his heart from pumping blood throughout his body. He was starting to feel, and he hated himself for it, that this indeed was a bad idea.

"Do you want to say something?" Storm said without looking away from the grave, though he felt her glance. "Or if you want to keep it private, you can think it. I don't mind. I think she would still hear it."

Sam swallowed, and his saliva felt like glue. He cleared his throat. "I, uh . . ." He couldn't not know what to say, he _couldn't. _His tongue was tied in a knot, his thoughts only whirls of illusions, unable to thread a sentence together. He just knew he had to say something.

"The truth is always the best way to go," said Storm.

"Jess . . ." He coughed to clear his throat again and he breathed out, shaking his head. "I miss you like crazy. Every day." He glanced down. "I hope that wherever you are . . ." But he couldn't finish those stupid words. They made him feel like he was choking on clichés.

Storm was watching him, and then her eyes trailed carefully from his face, not onto the gravestone, but to the ground where Sam knew her body to be buried six feet under.

"Wherever you are," Storm continued for him, "I know you're still the girl with the beautiful wavy blonde hair that I was extremely envious of when I first met you. I didn't know you very well, or at all, but I know that truly you must have been something, because Sam Winchester loved and still loves you very much, and I trust and admire him very deeply."

Storm looked at Sam, but he still got the impression that she was still talking to Jess.

"I don't believe in death, because death is the definition of the _definite _end of something, for its existence and memory to obliterate into oblivion. No one ever really dies, and especially not you, Jess, because your memory will forever and ever live in Sam's heart, and mine as well. You're alive, because you were loved, and still are."

The corners of Sam's eyes burned. He blinked, and looked up at the sky where there was only a single, small, very dull star against an indigo background.

Sam looked back down at Storm and she was staring back up at him.

_You literally dropped from the sky and into my life,_ Sam thought. _Who **are **you?_

Storm took out her sketch pad and carefully ripped her recently drawn picture from it. She bent down and made to place it against Jessica's grave. It was a picture of Jess, and like Storm said, she had no real eye for details. It was not bad, but it looked like a sixth grader had drawn it with only a vague idea of what the person in question looked like.

Yet there was something extremely odd about it. The eyes may have glittered, strangely life-like and instantly reminding him of Jess. Sam thought the picture might have been breathing.

He knew that the wind might carry it away, or that the next rainstorm would make it soak into the dirt, but he didn't care. He liked it being there now.

Before Storm released her picture, she thought privately to the heavens, _I'll keep him safe for you._

A bird cooed softly from somewhere unseen.

Sam wiped his eyes and Storm pretended not to see. Now feeling it a safe thing to do so, she took his hand, and they both stared down at the grave for ten or so seconds before Sam felt as though he had done what he came to do.

Still hand-in-hand, they dispersed away from Jessica Moore's grave and down the little dirt path and out of the cemetery, closing the black iron gate gently behind them.


	8. Turtle Doves

**I'm sorry for the delay :[ I hope my large gap of absence didn't scare you all away or left you uninterested. I took a break from all my stories for personal reasons, but I'm looking forward to getting this story started up again. I hope you are, too.**

**Thank you all for being so lovely with the reviews you leave me, I cannot even begin to express my gratitude.**

_-Eight-_

Turtle Doves

It was another dream.

Storm only knew that because she was looking at a smaller, minimized version of herself. It was strange but fascinating. She couldn't have been more than perhaps twelve. Her white hair, which oddly seemed a little darker, was a few inches shy of her shoulder. She was dressed in typical clothing you might see in the child's section at Target; simple light jeans and purple T-shirt that was bedazzled with silver plastic jewels.

She stood about ten feet away, hand in hand with a tall and unfamiliar man. The whole of her tiny hand was curled around the man's fingers opposed to interlocking with them.

They were walking through an abandoned train station that was irregularly spotless. Storm couldn't see the man's face, but his hair was light brown in color, waving in some places. He wore a dark blue, almost black business suit.

Little Storm hesitated in their walk. She glanced over her shoulder in the direction of Storm, but she didn't seem to be able to see her. Her face wasn't much different. In fact, she looked almost exactly as she did now except for in the present she looked older.

"What is it?" asked the man. Storm moved in closer to listen better; there was a soft buzzing in her ears that was making it hard to hear.

The man looked down at Little Storm and Older Storm was able to get a side profile of him. He looked like a middle aged handsome anchorman. There was a shallow spot in his cheeks under high cheekbones. The line around his lips was vague, but their rosy color helped enunciate them.

Storm knew she didn't know this man physically, but she didn't ignore the tug of familiarity.

"No one will be following us." Her tone didn't imply this was an inquiry, but the question was still suggested.

Storm had never heard a child speak so blankly. Even now as her dark eyes scanned over her shoulder, they held no life as Storm saw she had in the present day. They might as well have been holes drilled into her head for how empty they were.

"No," said the man. "You were granted permission by the court to have your own Heaven. It will be your place of sanctuary."

"Will I still have to go back?"

The slightest of pauses before his answer. "Yes."

He made to continue walking but Little Storm released his fingers. He stopped and looked back at her.

"Castiel," she said, and Storm's eyebrows met. "What am I becoming?"

Even back then, it appeared, that Storm was still asking Castiel the same question.

And just like now, she still failed to get an answer.

"You barely succeeded in passing the requirements for obtaining your own Heaven; delaying for any longer could alter their choice." He gestured her forward but Little Storm seemed reluctant to oblige.

"They will just immediately throw me back down there. Why are they playing with my head and giving me a Heaven? You don't know, Castiel. You don't know what they do to me. And I don't know why they do it, and you won't tell me."

It was funny how this man, although having a different face, managed to replicate the exact same expression when the present Castiel narrowed his eyes.

"It will be over."

"You never say when."

"I do not know when," the angel admitted.

"How old am I?"

"Eleven."

"Is that young?"

Castiel considered. "Incredibly."

"I can't remember one year in those eleven. Time is different down there. Castiel—"

The angel shook his head and Little Storm silenced as though he had shouted. As a steam train of spectacular scarlet and gold screeched to a gentle halt before them, he reached for her small hand again. Little Storm stared up at him, her eyes sweeping over the handsome train as steam blew out of it. Doubt curtained her entire expression but she eventually took Castiel's hand and let him help lift her onto the train.

"Castiel," said present Storm quietly, the last syllable of his name cracking on her tongue. She wasn't expecting it, but he froze with his foot on the first step.

His eyes flickered up to hers and they were no longer green, and his hair no longer brown. He had transformed to what he looked like in the present, normal trenchcoated, sad blue-eyed Castiel.

"Why are you playing these mind games with me?" demanded Storm.

"You do not understand."

"You can explain. You're trying to tell me something without saying it outright, but I'm not gaining anything from these visions. Except that I knew you before any of this happened."

Castiel's eyebrows creased upward, his eyes trailing onto the train, on its marvelous shining surface that was practically a mirror.

"I . . . did," said Castiel slowly. He paused and then gingerly elaborated, "Know you."

"Who were you to me?"

"What we were is considered a trivial matter."

"By who?"

His eyes switched back to hers. "Your past is no longer of any importance."

"If you believed that, you wouldn't be here trying to discreetly to tell me."

"It is against orders for me to tell you anything."

"But you are still trying."

He paused again, this time taking a very long time before saying, "I shouldn't be."

"Then I don't care. Unless you're going to tell me and stop fooling with my head, then stop trying. I'm not willing to play a scavenger hunt; I don't care for anything but the truth. Get out of my head, and get out of my dreams."

He surveyed her still under those narrowed brows. "It would be easier on both of us, I'm sure, if you were to . . . come quietly."

Storm was done with it all.

"I don't know who I am; I don't know what my name was before Storm. I don't know who my parents were, if I had any friends, where I lived. Now I'm starting to doubt I had any of those things. What I do know is the person that I've become isn't going to give up to angels who won't even tell me why they're hunting me. If I can fight you, if I have any means of resistance, I'll do it."

The doleful sweep in Castiel's dark blue eyes was the angel's only reply.

Storm was a little nauseated when she awoke. She was so groggy she forgot to pull the covers off her before getting out of bed. She tripped and nearly fell off the mattress in a tangle of blankets. Reaching blindly upward for something to help her to her feet, she kicked off the blankets and approached the window, lifting the blinds.

It was as if she was expecting Uriel and Castiel to have their faces pressed against the glass.

Only now the sound of the train blowing steam was descending, as if aspects of the 'dream' had briefly followed her into the conscious world.

She rested her forehead against the cool window to soothe an approaching headache, closing her eyes gently. Opposed to fear, she was strangely more annoyed with Castiel. Infuriatingly frustrated was a better way to put it. She could tell he was close to telling her the secrets of her life, but having his 'orders' being the only thing holding him back. She was afraid to go to sleep anymore since of late the control of her dreams seemed to belong to the angels.

She had only been a young girl and didn't even seem to know how old she was. Did that mean she had been born there? Did she have no parents? Had she never even been on earth before three years ago?

She wasn't human; humans couldn't make other beings explode.

What was _really _driving her absolutely _insane _was not knowing, having not even a clue of what her _species _was. If she were to bleed, there was no one to identify her blood. For all she knew, she could be the Creature of the Black Lagoon. She wouldn't have minded; that way she could swim to the bottom of the lagoon and reunite with her fish family. At least there would have been a sense of belonging.

Storm meant what she said when she didn't want anything less than the downright truth, but it didn't stop her from pondering the dream. It was already becoming vague, her memories of it like a blurry watercolor.

She opened her eyes, her nose pressed hard against the glass. She was watching a fly caught in between windows, buzzing furiously and repeatedly throwing itself against both glass barriers but to no avail.

_I know how you feel._

She stood up straight, rubbing her nose and stretching. She made the bed and was changing out of her jeans when they made a slight crinkle halfway down her legs. She felt her pockets, narrowing her eyes as she pulled out an unevenly folded piece of paper. She opened it tentatively, feeling shock harden her facial features.

What she held was a sketching of a dove. Perfectly detailed, shadowed and gentle, so realistic that she trailed a gentle finger across the paper as if expecting to feel feathers.

Storm folded the paper lightly under her fingers, closing her eyes again as she held the drawing to her her lips.

_What are you trying to tell me, Castiel?_

She looked at again, turning it over, looking for a message, a symbol, _anything. _But it was just the sketching.

She pulled her pants back up, stashing the drawing back in her pocket and arming herself with a black sweater against the chilly weather outside. Halfway through her strut to the brothers' room, her eyes swept the parking lot, seeing no other car besides an old red Ford truck. No Impala.

She knocked on door number 16 with the palm of her hand, somewhat desperately. "Sam? Dean?" She waited another five seconds before adding again, "Sam? Is anyone there?"

The door opened and Storm backed up a few paces, shocked. Sam's face appeared to have grown a rich, thick white beard. She blinked and his eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Storm? What's up—"

"Why—what is that?"

"What?"

She wiggled her fingers at her own jaw, examining his. It wasn't a beard, but some white foamy stuff. Storm shook her head. "You look ridiculous. What kind of fashion statement is this?"

"Uh." Sam straightened his shoulders, his frown deepening. "It's . . ." He laughed uncertainly, pointing to his chin. "You mean . . . It's shaving cream?"

"Why?"

"You've never heard of shaving cream?"

"No . . . how do you use it?"

"It's, uh, used for facial hair." He indicated the cheap razor in his right hand. "I keep forgetting you've only been around for three years. Guess you wouldn't have much use for it, huh?"

"No, uh . . ." Her contained giggle stung her throat. "You look—" She blushed when she snorted, covering her mouth briefly with her hand. "Where's, uh, where's Dean? The car's not here."

Sam backed up, nodding her inside and closing the door behind her as he said, "He left a couple minutes ago to go buy some oil for the car. What is it that you came over here for?"

"Um . . . you can finish shaving first."

"I was makin' some coffee if you, uh, want some. I'll just be a sec."

Even if Storm didn't like coffee, she said, "Sure."

Sitting at the desk, she added every cream capsule there was to the bitter drink, then stopped counting after the fifth sugar packet. She caught sight of Sam through the small opening in the bathroom door, running the razor down his cheek and jaw.

"I suppose in some ways, it is not much different than being a child," said Storm after about a minute, only satisfied with her drink when she could no longer taste the coffee. "Everyone who is technically my age has had a lifetime to understand the world and the things in it. I have had only three, two of which I have spent in a psychiatric hospital. I've grasped basic concepts but . . . not much more."

The scratch of the razor against of Sam's chin was briefly absent. Ten seconds later he emerged, cleanly shaven and blotting his face with a towel and staring down into Storm's face.

"You've gotten along okay," he said. "I'm actually a little surprised at how well you adjusted considering the circumstances."

"That's kind of you to say. But I'm not complaining. I try to take each coming day as best as I can, try not to dwell on the bizarreness of everything. Of course, especially of late, it's been difficult." Storm wavered on the verge of looking up into Sam's eyes, but found them traveling to the empty parking lot. She sipped her coffee, leaning back in her chair and shaking her head abruptly as if trying to rid away a pesky fly. "Anyway . . . what I came to talk to you about. Look at this."

She stood up, retrieving the drawing from her back pocket and handing it to Sam who took it with tentative fingers, glancing uncertainly at her as she awaited his reaction. He unfolded it, examining the sketching for a few seconds before looking back at her. "This was what you wanted to talk about? Did you draw this?"

"No."

Sam raised his eyebrows.

"I had another dream. Just now. I'm pretty sure I just talked to Castiel and—I don't know. I think I saw myself. As a child. But I don't know whether to believe anything he shows me. She is 'Little Storm' in my head. They were talking about . . . I can't remember now, but I woke up with this in my pocket."

Sam blinked, a little taken aback by this abrupt slab of information springing from nowhere. "Wait—you saw yourself as a kid? With Castiel?" He smoothed his fingers over the wrinkle in the paper. At her nod, he added, "And this was in your pocket?"

"When I woke up," she confirmed. "I feel uneasy, Sam. I feel that Castiel is trying to tell me something, whether to warn me, or—but why give me this? What does a dove have to do with anything? They seem to be turning up everywhere."

"You had one in your hands when I found you on that road," Sam murmured, still staring down at the picture. It was beautifully drawn, yet alarmingly disturbing. The way the eyes seemingly glistened in the lighting made him feel he was being watched. He folded it again, handing it back to her. "Storm, can you think of anything out the ordinary that happened to you since three years ago? Besides the voices and the man in the alleyway? Maybe something to do with a dove?"

Storm started to nervously fiddle with the ring on her middle finger, licking her lips as she tried to penetrate the dark depths of her mind to that cold thing she called 'memory'. Even after the incident, remembering things had never come easy to her. Forgetting to turn the lights off, leaving the stove on all night, or even forgetting to dress some mornings and leaving her apartment in her kangaroo pajama pants. It was as though her brain had been tampered, corrupted—damaged. It was why she liked drawing and reading because it did not necessarily involve logic or memory skill.

She eyed him for another moment and then closed her eyes tightly, wrinkling her nose. But her memory was a million miles of darkness, a chasm of violent nothingness. There was nothing at all she could recall that could aid them, and thinking about it summoned a terrible ache directly in the center of her forehead.

When she opened her eyes to Sam's awaiting ones, she desperately wished she could have any other reply. "I really don't know, Sam. Other than the voices and man, I—I don't know, I can't think of anything."

Sam's eyes did a meaningful sweep over her, his fingers curling as if they wanted to grasp something. He pressed his lips together, looking Storm in the eye and clearing his throat with a small shake of his head. "We'll keep looking. I mean, we've got something to go on now."

Storm surveyed him, going oddly still. "I'm only worried about you and your brother."

"We've dealt with enough things to know how to take care of ourselves and I—" He shrugged. "I don't really get the sense that you're in danger of losing control. The angels would've talked a lot of crap to make you afraid so that you'll go with them. Do you remember what Castiel said to you in the dream?" he added.

"He said it would be better if I went quietly."

"That's it?"

"I . . . ye—I didn't talk to him much. But Little Storm said she was . . . _down _somewhere . . . That doesn't sound so good, does it?"

"Don't assume anything until we can square away some things. I'm research guy; we'll get everything figured out."

Storm wasn't sure if he was saying this merely to comfort her or if he even really believed it himself, but she appreciated it all the same and it did bring some marginal amount of reassurance. Still, she couldn't help but wonder how Sam's handy internet access could research something like this.

"Do you . . ." Sam wet his lips before giving an awkward cock of his head, looking back into her eyes. "'Down there' . . . I mean, Storm . . . do you think you were Hell?"

His mind drifted vaguely to Dean, glad he wasn't present for this conversation.

Storm took her time before saying, "That other dream seems to support that idea, huh? But in this one, I think they were speaking of Heaven. _My_ Heaven. Someone was giving me one?" Storm laughed but wondered if there was ever another situation in her life that she had ever found less funny. "I don't know, Sam."

Sam frowned but nodded his understanding, wishing he had something more to say.

"Anyway," said Storm after a long pause. "I don't know what to think of the last dream, but I think we should get a move on, so I hope your brother gets back soon."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'll give him a call," said Sam, somewhat distractedly. Storm smiled, which did a drastic job in making the dark purple bruises under her eyes look less noticeable.

"Thank you for everything, Sam."

His eyes followed her to the door, feeling a gnawing in his insides as the distance between them grew. "Storm?"

She looked back at him and Sam suddenly realized that he had no idea what he wanted to say. "Uh . . ." He fidgeted a little on the spot, laughing nervously. "Um, have you eaten breakfast?"

Her grip on the doorknob loosened, raising her brows as if food was the last thing on her mind. But she shrugged uncertainly and shook her head. "No, not yet."

"There's a diner here where I can pretty much promise you that the eggs aren't dosed in a cup of olive oil."

The twitch in the corner of her lips, however small, caressed his ego.

Together they headed to the little building which was completely deserted apart from a family of three sitting a few booths away. A waitress passed, holding two plates of pancakes and bacon, the steam wafting toward them. So accustomed to diner food as Sam was, he didn't even have to glance at the menu before ordering the veggie omelet. Storm ordered a BLT along with a large glass of milk, coloring abstract doodles into her napkin with a pen. Dean didn't answer the first time Sam tried calling so he left a brief message.

Sam sipped his ice tea absently, watching Storm eye the downcast of clouds outside. He licked his lips, wanting to somehow get around the subject of Storm's gesture of kindness when she had visited Jess with him, but he didn't know how to spontaneously bring it up. He cleared his throat nervously which caught her attention, but he hadn't even planned the first syllable when he caught sight of a small girl standing at the end of their table.

She was maybe six or so, with long unkempt mousy brown hair that was pulled back with several butterfly clips. She wore large, very thick square glasses that dominated most of her small face. She was so freckly that she might have been tan.

Storm was watching her curiously without saying anything. Swinging slightly side to said, the girl said, "I like your hair."

Storm sat up a bit straighter, a smile sweeping across her face. "Thank you. I like your glasses."

"I don't c-cause people at s-s-school say I look like a b-bug."

"There was a girl I used to know who called me turnip-head because I used to blush a lot and had white hair."

Sam's eyes flickered between the two.

"Y-you don't l-l-look anything like a turnip," said the girl.

"Thank you. You don't look anything like a bug. I think you're beautiful. And the glasses enunciate your blue eyes, which I think is the whole reason the kids were picking on you in the first place. Just jealous."

The girl's shy beam revealed several missing teeth.

A man, undoubtedly her father, approached the table tentatively, placing an arm on his daughter's shoulder.

"I hope she isn't bothering you?" he said.

"She was just complimenting my hair."

The father squeezed the girl's shoulder, smiling almost uncertainly at Storm, his eyes wavering over the white locks. He patted his daughter's back, urging her to return to their table.

"It was nice meeting you!" said the girl, as if it was the most essential thing in the world that she tell Storm. "My name's Katie!"

"My name's Storm; this is Sam," said Storm with matched enthusiasm, pointing to him.

Katie waved fervently at him and he smiled abruptly and waved back vaguely.

"Huh," said Sam, turning back to Storm. "You really had a girl who called you turnip-head?"

"I used to have to go to these gathering-type things my first year in the institution, you know, like dance therapy for the 'mentally unstable'. There were people of all ages, and one girl maybe a little older than Katie named Joanne. She teased me, probably for my horrible dancing skills, which I will not recite," she added at Sam's laugh. "But she ended up being my best friend. Funny . . . she also had a stuttering problem."

Her eyes were on the family, listening to the mother telling Katie to stand up straight and not to talk with her mouth full. The closest thing she had to 'mother talk' was her nurse telling her to take her medication.

"You like kids?" Sam asked.

"Oh, I like people. The ones who are kind; it doesn't matter to me what size or age they are. Nice is nice. Telling someone that they are beautiful is so easy to do and it makes them feel good, which makes you feel good. And what's great is that it can almost never be a lie."

Sam's fork of omelet halted an inch from his mouth. She looked back at him, still smiling a little with her cheek resting on her hand. He bit into his food, chewing thoughtfully.

"You have a really positive outlook on life," he said finally.

"I try to. With everything else; my amnesia, hunted by angels, creating tornadoes of furniture, and exploding demons . . . focusing on just the ugly will drive you insane."

Sam raised his eyebrows a little, not in doubt, but consideration.

A few minutes later after the family left, Sam dismissed himself to the bathroom. Storm was in the process of ripping up her napkin, rearranging the shreddings into random designs on the table surface. She was vaguely listening to a song on the jukebox, fondling the dove drawing in her pocket, looking up every few seconds in search of Sam.

_'Imagine me and you, I do; I think about you day and night, it's only right; To think about the girl you love and hold her tight—'_ The song was sharply interrupted by static._ '—happy together.'_

Storm looked up. Jukeboxes didn't have static interference, did they?

'_I can't see me lovin' nobody but you—' _Static. '. . . - _all my life; When you're with me, baby the skies'll—_' There was another sound resurfacing, like a voice. But it was hard to tell if Storm was imagining it under the harsh veil of static.

She made her way to it, eyes briefly casting over the seemingly completely deserted diner. She saw that the song that was selected was Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles, which was one she actually knew, but it wasn't what the jukebox was playing.

Storm reached for the volume control, but either up or down, the sound remained unaffected. '_Me and you, and you and me—' _The static became sharp and irritating, like a radio tuning from one bad station to another.

"Storm?"

Sam had returned from the bathroom, watching her struggle with the jukebox and narrowing his eyes.

'_So happy together.'_

The jukebox shut down with an almost comical _bwink. _Every sound seemed to shut down with it; the wind outside no longer howled, the chatter in the kitchen not audible, but Storm's eardrums were pounding hard in her skull. She hovered a hesitant finger over the controls, wetting her lips and pressing them together as she stared at the object, as though expecting it might suddenly spring to life and attack.

Sam briefly joined her in staring down at the old audio machine, eyebrows now raised in confusion.

"Everything okay?"

Storm didn't answer, feeling that at any moment she might miss something. Sam did a double take between her and the jukebox, glancing around the room.

"Storm—"

"Sam," said Storm evenly, and the breath that carried his name was more like a silent gasp. Storm leaned forward, breathing heavily upon the glass of the jukebox. Impressed in the layer of steam were two words, one symbol.

Athedas = ax.

"Ax—" said Sam, confused wide eyes sweeping over the two words before flickering onto Storm, sheer astonishment almost cracking his voice. "Storm, what—the hell—"

"_Look up," _said the jukebox.

Sam only had time to stare at the radio, make sure that really was _it _that had spoken, before glancing upward out of the window and see a white bird perched on the top of a red Ford truck in the parking lot.

Probably tenths of a millisecond before it happened, Sam was running at Storm and had just managed to grasp her wrist when every window in the diner exploded. Like a swarm of glass hornets, the shattered windows showered over them as they fell hard on the ground, shielding their faces.

When Storm had reached out a hand to break her fall, a shard of glass had cut into her hand, light red blood staining the lines of her palm like mini spiderwebs.

"Go!" Sam had managed to shout. Using each others' weight to help themselves to their feet, Sam and Storm hurled themselves at the front door which rung as they barged out of it. They hadn't taken half a step out of the building before their path was blocked by an obstacle in the shape of Uriel.

"You can only migrate so far, little birdy," he said.

A flap of wings to their right announced Castiel's presence. Storm slowly turned her head, feeling as though every bone in her neck might crack if strained too much. Her eyes, burning from not blinking, froze on Castiel's dark blue ones. She was losing circulation in her left arm from Sam's vise grip on it.

A light wind beat her hair around her shoulders, the atmosphere dull from the dark clouds above absorbing most of the sunlight.

Storm's eyes briefly darted to the bird nestled on the red truck, immobile and black eyes twinkling in the gray light. In the back of her mind, she was wondering why no one had come out to investigate the noises, and then assumed it was the angels' doing.

"You need to come with us, Storm," said Castiel evenly.

Her attention eased back into the present, listening to Sam's heavy breath, seeing his chest rise and fall from the corner of her eye. Her own heart felt as though it might never beat again, stricken with a fatal immobility that sent waves of cold all over her body.

"How'd you find us?" said Sam, his voice producing syllable after bitter syllable.

"Birds of a feather, I suppose," said Uriel. He did not in any way indicate the dove, his eyes followed Storm's gaze to it. She saw his smile visibly suffer.

"What the hell do you want from her?" Sam demanded. "What does Athedas—"

"'Storm'," interrupted Uriel, spitting the name as if it was a joke, "isn't apart of your tale, Winchester. Not yet. You don't have to worry about her. We're not going to kill her, but what we _do _do with her doesn't fall under your concern. We understand your worry, so we're giving you a chance to back. Off."

"Castiel," spoke up Sam desperately, still holding Storm's small wrist within his fingers. "Please, you can stop this, you know this isn't right."

"It's wiser for you not to intervene, Sam," said Castiel. "You don't know the situation and we cannot make you understand."

"Try."

Castiel looked directly into Sam's eyes and Sam looked right back, his silent plea reverberating throughout their gaze. Castiel looked at him for a moment, the furrow between his brows as they narrowed giving Sam a spark of hope, thinking that maybe it was a sign of uncertainty.

The angel looked instead at Storm who seemed to be awaiting his gaze. Yet he couldn't stare into her eyes for long before he remembered the light brown shade they had used to be before fading to the color of raw emerald. He looked away.

"You have no right to judge what is right and wrong for something you can't comprehend," said Uriel with a solid shake of his head. "We are done asking."

"You can't command me to your Heaven without even telling me why you've been hunting me down," said Storm at last.

Uriel moved forward a little, dark eyes boring directly into Storm's.

"This isn't a request."

"Tell me what I am, then. Tell me why I fell from the sky, why I'm seeing visions of a hell-like reality. You tell me what you did to me and why I can't remember anything."

"We don't have to tell you anything," said Uriel with slightly raised brows. "We've been extremely polite with you thus far, but if you keep on resisting, we will take it to mean that you are asking us to use force."

"I can't believe you are the people desperate people pray to every day," said Storm, her voice like a sharp bite.

"It honestly doesn't matter what you believe." Uriel held out his hand to Storm and she looked down at it, seriously dreading the touch of his hand on hers more so than where it might lead her. "We offer a lot of chances, but you only have one left. We can make things ugly."

"You don't need any help," said Storm, her snark giving her courage.

Uriel's expression was unfazed.

"Uriel," said Castiel, joining the other angel's side.

"That better not be your tone of leniency, Castiel."

"If Storm knew the truth, she may understand why she cannot remain here. We were told to do this with as little confrontation as we could so as not to . . ." Castiel paused and dared another moment of eye-contact with Storm.

Uriel's eyes suddenly locked on the dove that was remained in its abnormally still position. Storm had the impression that it was watching them. It appeared to be staring right back at her.

"Damage it," finished Uriel sourly, but his mind was unchanged. "It's still against orders." He curled a smile at Storm. "I'll be gentle."

"Tell me," said Storm at once, cutting over Uriel and looking at Castiel, pushing herself a little in front of Sam, even if his grip forced her to remain close. "You're doing this because of orders. You want to tell me, Castiel. I know you. You're the closest thing I can identify as familiar since I landed here, and it isn't a bad feeling. What way did I serve Heaven?"

Sam looked at Storm in small astonishment. She had never mentioned to him of having any kind of familiarity with Castiel. Had they known each other prior before any of this? Sam pushed down his uncertainty, knowing he had no time for it.

"Who were you to me?" pressed Storm.

"Don't say anything you'll regret, Castiel," said Uriel.

As Castiel continued to gaze at Storm, she saw a new mix of emotions she was not expecting from him. Anger and most certainly something like fear. She could see the doleful wisp of cold submission in his eyes, a choice of order over will.

"Now, Storm," commanded Castiel, a firm tone of authorization returning to his voice. "If you care for those who accompany you, do as we ask."

Storm thought she might scream.

She looked over at the dove again and yes, still looking pin point into her eyes. It might have been a garden accessory from how little it moved.

_'You had this—this, uh, bird in your hands. Weird, huh?'_

_'What kind of bird?'_

_'A dove, I think.'_

If a bird had been in her hands when she fell from Heaven, she could only assume that that was where it was from, too. It had flown across the states to find Storm, leading both of the angels to her, as if they shared a connection.

And from the way Uriel's cold eyes were constantly flickering back to it indicated obvious paranoia.

Storm didn't have much else to go on; for all she knew, the moment one of the angels touched her it could be all over.

_My God, this will be a shot in the dark._

With instinct replacing her blood, Storm didn't waste a breath waiting another second. She moved so quickly that she slipped like soap from Sam's oblivious grasp, her boots pounding as hard as her heart against the pavement.

"Storm—!"

But Storm had no choice but to ignore Sam, knowing that angels were very fast and very strong, and if they got their hands on her now, she lost.

_Come down! Please come **down**!_

Like it held the second half of her brain, the dove fluttered down. It was like water made solid from its grace as it soared evenly into the air and into her awaiting hands.

"_No!"_

It was Uriel's panicked shout that shocked Storm with triumph. She could literally feel a cool flutter against her arm as Uriel clawed the air furiously in attempt to grip her. When she turned, the menacing angel was a mere foot away, hand still outstretched, fingers frozen an inch above her forearm. He had come to screeching halt as Storm stood there with the still dove, holding it in place with a hand over its soft body, the blood of her cut hand staining the pure white of its feathers.

If an explosion could happen without the actual 'boom', Storm was pretty sure one just took place in her core. She could feel lightning waves course all throughout her body, and there was a pressure in her fingers, as if something wanted to be released. For a moment, she thought she was floating, but she felt solid ground beneath her feet as she curled her toes in her shoes.

Uriel was still a foot from her, and the fact that he had stopped told Storm she had made a good choice by retrieving the dove. A wide-eyed, astonished and confused Sam was being held back by Castiel. With Uriel's eyes on her face, triumph seized her again when she saw fear etch into every line on his stupid face.

She glanced down at the dove. It was cooing, the sound happy as a cat's purr.

"Put the bird down," said Uriel. "This isn't about what Heaven wants, anymore. That thing," he glanced at the dove, "has some power you're not ready for."

_Finally; I have a giant piano over your head._

"Power? This is the dove I fell down with three years ago, isn't it? I'm not putting down anything until you answer every question I just asked."

Uriel straightened up and Storm allowed her gaze to waver onto Castiel who was staring at her with furrowed brows, looking incredibly uneasy.

"Am I human? Am I angel? Half-angel? The Creature of the Black Lagoon?"

A heavy amount of wrinkles bundled up between Uriel's brows as he concentrated, torn. She wasn't even sure what he thought she might do with the dove or why he was so afraid, but whatever the reason may be she she was going to try and use it.

The twisted smile of his returned, but it was so obviously forced. "I will not play these games with you. Fine. Fine, I will tell you. I will tell you everything once you put the bird down."

Instead Storm looked at Sam and he stared back at her. It was as though time weighed heavier in the air with each passing second, crushing down on Storm's bones and muscle. She could hear her heartbeat in her skull, very still but her insides trembling, a maddening flicker of suspense licking at her insides.

With infinitesimal movement, Sam shook his head.

The bird was still vibrating energy into her hands, like electricity somehow charging her. It honestly hurt a little, like having little showers of icy prickles climbing up her forearms, but it made her realize. It was producing power into her, feeding the source of whatever 'abilities' she had shown so far. She could feel it with her every bone.

That must have been why Uriel was afraid, and if he had reason to be afraid, then there must have been the potential outcome that she could overthrow him.

Storm gazed into his eyes, like black steel, and knew that he wasn't telling the truth. Even if he were to tell her, it would be at the cost of submitting her only known hold over them so far; the dove. Storm wouldn't follow them to Heaven, even if that meant she had wander the earth for the rest of her unnatural life without knowing who or what she was.

Like Storm could see his dishonesty, Uriel could evidently see her resistance.

"Don't—" he started.

She threw her hand out like she was about to backhand someone. A force like a brick wall met the back of her hand, though there was nothing physical to hit. Uriel was swept from the ground, doing a barrel roll until he hit the side of the red Ford. Glass shattered and fell all over the angel who was instantly regaining his footing. His impact had made the car alarm go off.

Terrified and elated that her spontaneous decision had actually worked, Storm was running again, holding the dove to her heart, her next objective to get to Sam. Uriel was shouting at her, there was various doors opening around the motel, evidently people finally coming to inspect what the commotion was about.

For some reason, it barely took a pull from Sam to get Castiel to release him and he did not run after him.

Storm and Castiel met gazes again, his eyes speaking the apology that she knew his lips could not make. He watched wistfully as Sam grabbed the material of Storm's jacket around the shoulder, pulling her away from Uriel who was advancing on them again.

But the moment Storm took Sam's hand in hers, the ground beneath them vanished for a tenth of a second, too quick for either to notice. Sam experienced the sensation of pressure rising and dropping quickly. Suddenly, he was blinking at bright light, no longer in the midst of cold fall air or the shouting of people.

They were in a room, one quite unfamiliar to him. The walls were of red bricks, some parts of it that had white tape on it, as if there had been pictures hanging there previously. It was a living room they stood in, connected to a small but quaint kitchen. His ears had popped, as if they had suddenly increased in altitude.

"Storm—?"

"My old apartment." She sounded out of it. "It was the first place I could think of. I'm tired—"

Storm didn't finish before collapsing on the ground, too soon for Sam to be able to catch her before her head hit the floor. As he feverishly bent beside her, her closed hands over the dove began to twitch. Sam was hit with déjà vu as it broke free, fluttering off into the air and soaring in circles around the living room.

.

"_It looks like a friggin' nuclear bomb went off in the parking lot; do **not **tell me to calm down. What the hell happened?"_

"Castiel and Uriel came looking for Storm again," said Sam, glancing over his shoulder through the balcony door windows. Storm was still seated on the couch wrapped up in an enormous blue blanket, drowsy eyes on the television.

"_And Storm?" _

"She's . . . okay."

"_With a pause that says otherwise?"_

"We're in Connor Beverly. Y'know, the, uh, the same town of Anna and Storm's hospital."

There was the slightest of pauses. "_You wanna tell me how you got all the way to Colorado in one hour?"_

"She teleported us here."

"_Come again?"_

Sam shrugged to himself, placing his hand on the cold iron of the balcony railing and frowning out at the city. "Uriel's making a B-line at us, and next thing I know we're standing in Storm's apartment. She fainted immediately after."

"_Teleporting's like an angel profession, though. Right?"_

"Yeah, but, I mean, Dean," Sam chuckled, shaking his head, "on top of everything that's been going on, Storm being able to teleport isn't so unbelievable."

Dean took a beat before saying, "_She still passed out?"_

"No, she woke up a few minutes ago. She's watching _Seinfeld." _Sam was smiling.

"_Ooo, which episode?"_

"Uh . . . no clue."

Dean coughed. "_Anyway, I'm makin' my way over now so just sit tight 'till I get there. Two days tops. And remember, Sammy . . ." _Dean paused to add dramatic effect.

"What?"

"_Chick flicks take forever to get through, but they may add a few 'aw'ing moments. On the other hand, movies like **Night of the Living Dead **may earn you a few scared-cuddle situations."_

"Dude, what are you talking about?"

"_I'm just givin' you a little advice."_

"Advice—" Sam cut himself off. "Dude, there's no way I'm going to try anything with—_no_. With everything that's going on?"

"_Hey, way I see it, everyone could use a little comfort. I'm just sayin'." _Sam could practically hear his indifferent shrug.

"Y'know you're really something."

Dean chuckled.

"_I'll see you soon, Sammy."_

Sam gave his cell phone an extremely exasperated look before pocketing it. He twiddled his fingers along the railing, breathing in cold night air before turning to reenter the apartment.

Storm was in the kitchen with the blanket still wrapped around her. She was fixing up two mugs of tea and glanced up as Sam slid the door shut, blocking out all noise of the city.

"How are you holding up?" Sam asked.

She managed to smile. "Oh, I'm okay. Just tired."

She did look fine apart from the small dark circles under her eyes.

"You collapsed pretty quickly."

"Whatever I did drained all my energy again."

Sam moved forward, placing his hands on the back of one of the dining chairs.

"I don't think it's any use asking how you knew how to teleport?"

She dipped a teabag into the boiling water, watching it stain the clear substance. She leaned back against the counter with the mug in her hands, settling her gaze on the dove that was perched on a bookcase. She sipped her green tea.

"No, I can't explain to you how I knew—maybe I was just hoping I could." She tightened her blanket around herself. "We're out and we're okay. That's all I really care about right now. Did you talk to Dean?"

"Yeah, he's on his way. It's gonna be maybe around two days."

"Good. I'm not up for anymore teleporting. My place is yours."

"Think we could all use a breather."

"I could use some _Seinfeld. _Watch it with me?"

Her smile was hopeful and it took little effort for Sam to return it.

"Sure."

"Tea," she said, and pushed the other mug in his hand before shuffling past him to sit on the couch. He followed in suit and Storm took the show off pause, snuggling herself more comfortably in the couch cushion.

"You like Jerry Seinfeld?" he asked after a few minutes.

"He's only the god of comedy."

"You've been around for three years—how would you know?"

"I'm not usually wrong about these things. I'm an excellent judge of character and comedian skills." She paused, sinking a little lower in her nest of blankets, her nose, eyes, and forehead only visible now. "Also that would technically make me a three-year-old, so I laugh at anything."

"Ah," Sam laughed, taking an absent sip of tea.

"Can I ask you an innocent question?"

Sam shrugged his affirmative.

"What were you doing the night that you found me?"

The laugh that he meant to release changed into a breathy sigh halfway out. "Uh, buying Twizzlers."

Storm's finger tapped on the brim of her mug. "I would never have thought that a bag of candy would save my life. Did you have a sweet tooth that had to be treated late at night?"

"No," he chuckled. "Actually, um . . ." He took another sip from his tea. It was bitter and burned the roof of his mouth but he swallowed. "Jess, uh, she loved doing these things she would call Geekends."

Storm paused the show. "I must hear the definition of this."

Sam laughed nervously again. "We would watch all the classics, like _Star Wars, Star Trek, Lord of the Rings, X-men. _She was actually a huge fan over those sort of things . . . I, uh, didn't exactly grow up around the classics so she was the first to introduce me to them."

Storm's nose wrinkled as she gave a vague smile. "I often get to referred to a character from _X-men. _I never saw it, though."

"Remind me to rent it later so we can watch it."

_Was that a move? No, of course it wasn't a move. What kinda guy questions if he just made a move or not? _

"I would love to see the reason why when I always meet someone they are looking for a wig seam," she said. "Go on."

"Well, we would have friends over a lot to watch them with us. There was one weekend she made me watch an _entire _season of _Star Trek. _I was allowed a bathroom break every hour and got to study right before heading to bed." He didn't realize he was beaming at the memory until he caught sight of Storm watching him with a small smile of her own. "And . . . I realize that makes it seem like we were complete dorks."

"If your definition of the word 'dork' is cute, happy, and a will to dedicate your weekend on the couch watching old shows for your significant other, then yes. That sounds . . ." Her eyes flickered upward but she closed them, as if remembering something. Sam didn't miss the irony. "I just wouldn't mind doing something like that. Something that's stupid and cute, kind of useless but harmless."

Her eyes opened to his.

"Sorry."

"No, I get it. I mean, you were in that hospital for two years and then on your own for a year, not having a clue who you were. You don't need to apologize." He stared at the paused screen for a few more moments, disdainfully flicking his tongue in response to the bitter tang of the tea. "I should actually, uh, y'know . . . thank you for the other night. At the graveyard. You didn't have to come with me."

Storm met his eyes, lips swollen and red from the burning beverage. "I was being your friend, and you don't need to thank me for that. I know it is strange considering I only met her a few times and so long ago, but I really did like Jess. Her and her pretty blonde hair. Do you know that I have tried several times to dye my hair?"

"Huh?"

"Once blonde, then twice brunette. It all completely washed out the first shower I took. It's unchangeable."

"I like it as it is now," he said without really thinking.

"You and Katie are the only ones who has confessed as such. But as time drew on, I have come to appreciate it and the uniqueness it gives me." She studied a lock of it between her fingers, then gave out a drawn out yawn. She rested her head on the back of the couch, blinking her eyes sleepily up at Sam. "Anyway . . . I am very happy that I got to come with you to visit Jess. I hope she would have been happy, too."

"I—I think she would have. She liked you."

Storm smiled gratefully, hugging the blankets gently to her heart. "That also makes me very happy."

Her eyes closed. For ten or so seconds, Sam was sure she was asleep until the gentle coo of the dove on top of the book shelf caused her eyelids to flutter open again. Her breath ruffled her bangs.

"Athedas equals ax," she said softly. "More questions to answer and no lead on any of them. What does _that _mean?"

"That you were Xena?" Sam suggested. He gave himself a moment to imagine Storm dressed up in leathers in furs, wielding an ax and sword while emitting a battle cry.

"Xena?"

"Uh, from this old show. Xena was a, uh, warrior princess." Sam coughed.

"I _hope _that's what it means."

Sam laughed but was in the middle of taking another sip of tea so choked.

"I should have asked if you wanted coffee instead. Not a lot of people like green tea."

"It's fine," he said, eyes watering as he coughed again.

"I'm going to get some sleep. This couch pulls out, by the way, but I have no idea how to do it."

He set his tea aside, getting to his feet. "I can figure it out. You've had a long day so you should get some shut eye."

"There are some Cheetos in the cupboard if you want some," she yawned, draping the thick blue blanket around her head and body like a cloak. Looking like an overlarge blue caterpillar, she managed to crack another smile up at him. "Good night, Sam Winchester."

"Night."

Sam watched as she shuffled sleepily off into her bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. Once he settled his bed situation in the living room, he counted exactly twenty-eight of the dove's coos before sleep ensnared him.

* * *

**Okay, that absence wasn't intended but I'm back now, hoping to bring this story back to life. Opinions are always welcome and thank you for reading :]**


	9. Sweet as Pearls

**A chapter updated without a three month hiatus? Must be gettin' my jazz back. This a very feel-good chapter, maybe a bit filler, but was tons of fun to write. More is going to be happening next chapter, guarantee it. I hope you enjoy and thanks for reading :] also, Happy Thanksgiving!**

_-Nine-_

Sweet as Pearls

"Look, I've called eleven times and left eight and a half messages. I came here yesterday, and the day before that, and before that, same time, and she wasn't here. She hasn't missed one day in nine months, even when she had strep throat. If she's in there, _please _let me see her."

It was much too early for Sam to be dealing with unknown five foot five men who greatly lacked personal hygiene. Broad shouldered and barely taller than Sam's midriff, his sandy brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, perhaps to hide the fact that it was unwashed. Every one of his fingers had some bizarre ring slapped on it, the lime green coloring on his skin proving they were all made of copper. A crocodile fang Sam was pretty sure was plastic hung from his left ear. His face looked to be 'struggling' to produce facial hair, the only source being a feeble goatee on the end of his chin. He wore a yellow apron over a Batman T-shirt and smelled like buttered movie theater popcorn.

"Uh . . . sorry, um . . ."

"Brad."

"Right. Brad. Look, uh, Storm's sleeping right now. She had a rough night."

"She okay?"

"Yeah, no, she's fine. How do you know her again?"

"I work with her at Crikey's. She hasn't turned up for over a week. No one believes me when I insisted something was wrong." His eyes squinted in comical suspicion. "Sam, was it?"

"Yeah," said Sam uncertainly.

"How do _you_ knowher?"

"I'm . . ." The effort of trying to come up with an excuse woke up his brain immediately, "an old friend. I was in town and decided to swing by."

Brad was watching him with a long pressing stare, his eyes doing a quick sweep over him. Sam saw his face visibly fall. He crossed his arms, wetting and rubbing his lips together, bright eyes flickering almost violently back to Sam's.

"Just let me see her."

"Look, man, I told you she's sleeping. She's okay, I promise. Can you come back later?"

"_Later?" _Brad scoffed as if Sam was stupid for suggesting such a thing. "I've been coming every day—been worried sick—went to the police station—even the hospital—tried to—" He stopped mid-rant, lips now a hard line as he literally glared _up _at Sam, as if all of these inconveniences had been his fault. "Where's she been?"

"We had a small road trip," Sam lied quickly. "Doesn't have a cell phone."

"I know _that,_" Brad snapped. "She just would never go anywhere without—" He shook his head. "Yeah, well, you can tell her that Harry fired her. Just this morning. Hope this 'road trip' was worth it."

Sam watched Brad march down the rundown hallway in five furious strides. Pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Sam shut the door. He checked his phone for any missed calls or messages as he plopped down on the pull out mattress, watching the rays of early morning sun stretch further across the living room floor.

A knot of guilt tugged at his insides. Storm had gotten fired and it was his and Dean's fault, just by dropping into her life. Though he knew regardless of being fired or not, with everything going on she would never return to her job, but he could see the aspects of her 'normal' life slipping away. He couldn't help but feel responsible; if he and Dean had never ran into her, would Uriel and Castiel have found her?

"Sam?" Storm's face was visible through the opening of her bedroom door, halfway through pulling on a light blue bathrobe. "You're up so . . . e-e-early." She tried and failed to stifle a loud yawn, fully emerging. Sam was amused to see that her cotton pajama pants had pictures of comical kangaroos all over them.

"Someone was at the door."

"I thought I heard you talking to someone," she said, pulling her hair from under the robe and bringing it back into a loose ponytail. She rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, blinking rapidly before settling her gaze on him. "Who was it? I don't get a lot of visitors."

"Some guy named Brad? Said he worked with you."

"Ohhh," said Storm, somewhere between a groan of comprehension and an uncertain laugh. "I completely forgot about work. I've missed over a week."

"Apparently he's been doing regular checkups. Got the impression he was pretty concerned."

"Oh. Yes, he works with me at the cafe. I should have called to tell them that I'm alright. Nice of him to be so worried."

"Did you and him used to go out?"

Storm blinked. "Sam, I've never even kissed a boy before. Where did you get that impression?"

"Nowhere—" Sam was slightly hot around the collar, especially at her unexpected confession that she had never kissed a boy. "Just didn't seem pleased to see me being the one to answer the door."

Storm was also a little pink in the cheeks but was giving a light smile. "Brad's always been very nice to me. He . . . well, Lucy, a girl at work, says he . . . I forget the term. Crushed me."

"What?"

"Or—has a crush? I don't know. He's very nice. I have to call him and tell him everything is okay. And also . . . oh, work. Have to quit work. If they haven't fired me." Storm seemed to read Sam's expression. Her face was blank for a few seconds up until she breathed out heavily, her shoulders rising and falling. "Brad said I was fired."

"I'm sorry."

She shook her head gently. "My priorities have dramatically changed since last week and they don't include serving chai lattes anymore. I don't care."

"Still. I feel like—"

Her second firm head shake silenced him. "I'm sorry, but I know what you're about to say and it isn't your fault. Whether or not I met you and Dean in that church, I'm still whatever I am and the angels would have found me one way or another. If I don't accept that then I'll be angry with everything. That's not how I want to be."

He studied her for a few seconds, running his tongue along his bottom lip as he shifted on the spot. Wiping his nose absently, he said slowly, "I'm kinda out of an argument on that one." He sighed quietly. "So, what do you think we should put on the agenda?"

"Breakfast."

"I mean with the . . ." Sam frowned at the dove which had nested in basket of napkins on top of the microwave. "Why did you go after the dove?"

"I had nothing else to go on. Uriel and Castiel were making the closing and it just—seemed the only thing left to do."

"What happened when you touched it?"

"I . . ." She looked a little stumped at the question. "It—the only way I can describe it is that it was—charging me?" Looking incredibly uncertain, she pressed a strong stare on the bird. "I think it led Castiel and Uriel to me, which makes me think we share a link. Especially if you said I had a dove in my hands the night you found me. I need to stop thinking and get some food," she added quickly. "My brain is killing me."

As it turned out, the only food Storm could find was either bad, canned tuna, or stale Cheetos. Sam offered to help her go grocery shopping so after getting dressed they took a bus downtown.

He noticed, even as they just sat on the bus, how open she was with everyone. If he only knew her back story, he would have assumed she would be much more closed off, afraid of everything. But she talked with almost everyone, even if it was only to offer a very small compliment. It was obvious that some people even found her friendliness weird, but Sam was smiling evermore every time she opened her mouth.

Halfway there, Storm asked him if he would like to spend an hour or so at a small village she liked just to pass some time. So one stop earlier they marched off the bus and into the cool weather, their jackets zipped up to their chins and faces flushed heavily with cold. They mostly window shopped, but Storm became thoroughly overly excited when they passed a costume shop and was nothing short of adorably put out when Sam plain out refused to try on a sparkly wizard hat that was at least the length of one of his legs. When Sam had spotted a Blockbuster, Storm agreed to watching _X-Men _for the first time.

He had forgotten what it was like to walk the streets of a town when he was not looking for the perpetrator of a demonic deed, feel the weight of a gun in his inner pocket, or knowing he only had a cheap motel room to return to. In fact it was all so 'normal' that he felt discombobulated and was a little concerned that he was actually on edge from not having to kill anything. He didn't state his feelings because it was evident that Storm was fully enjoying their time together. He was too, even if he knew that they really should be worrying about Castiel and Uriel and figuring out what the hell Storm was. But he comforted himself with the thought that in the present there was really nothing they could do about either, and this allowed him to enjoy the moment.

They stopped by a quaint but busy cafe before heading the grocery store and Sam tried to imagine Dean's reaction if he could see him sipping a white mocha and eating an almond croissant in the toasty corner by the fire. The more time Sam spent with Storm the more he became aware of the unusual affect she had on him. It was like, and he felt strange even thinking about it, as if demons didn't exist. Or that she made him forget about them almost completely simply by keeping them out of all conversation.

As if on cue, his phone buzzed and up popped a message.

'**Cant target where the hell you are. Why arent you with your brother?'**

Sam recognized the number to be one he and Ruby generally used to communicate when they could not openly talk in front of Dean. His thumb haunted the keypad, his lips pressing briefly together. After a pressing second he shut the phone with a snap, stuffing it into his pocket and promptly returning to his conversation with Storm about a story she was telling about her time in the hospital.

They only got enough food for today and tomorrow; pasta and salad for lunch and dinner, and then Cheerios for breakfast. And of course Cheetos.

On the way back to the bus stop, they passed a park with a frozen water fountain which Storm smiled vaguely at. "In the hospital, some patients were sometimes taken on little field trips. We would come here sometimes to feed the birds. It becomes weirder the more I think on it."

It was hailing out by the time lunch was halfway done. Since Storm lived on the top floor, it sounded like they were trying to talk over the applause of a stadium. Sam called Dean to find he was in Utah and also on a food break.

"_An' what have you crazy kids been up to?" _Dean asked through an apparent mouth full of cheeseburger.

"Shopping." Sam held his phone between his cheek and shoulder as he began chopping carrots.

"_Huh. Did'ya find any skirts that didn't make your butt look big?"_

"Like grocery shopping."

"_Sure. What's that noise?"_

"Uh, I'm chopping carrots. For salad?"

"_I'm away for one day and already you're goin' Desperate Housewife on me. Any luck on our white-haired friend's research?"_

"So far nothing." Sam quietly mouthed a 'thanks' to Storm as she scooped the carrot choppings into the salad bowl.

"_You don't sound too bummed out about that."_

"No, just—we're working on it. Nice to catch a breather once in a while, you know?"

"_Yeah, remind me how that feels again."_

"How far away are you?"

"_Oh, a good sixteen hours. Don't do anythin' I wouldn't do, Sammy."_

"So that rules out all sense and reason."

From the table, Storm lifted her face curiously to his. As he hung up, he fondled his phone for a few moments, straightening his spine as he peered at the dove which now assumed its original position on top of the book shelf.

"We should probably get a better inspection of it," he said as he sat down opposite Storm, piling a moderate amount of tuna casserole on his mismatched plate. "Obviously it's not all it appears to be, so maybe it has something like . . . I dunno, like that scar you showed us."

Storm took a tender bite of salad, chewing slowly and swallowing hard before saying, "Okay."

He didn't miss her tentative tone. Swallowing his food and pressing a napkin to his mouth, he said, "Is that alright with you?"

"Yes," she said at once. "But I said before; it was like it was charging me, like charging what little abilities I've shown so far. And you saw what happened; after I held it only for a few seconds, I managed to throw Uriel into the air without touching him, and then teleported us here. I don't want to accidentally blow up the roof, is what I'm saying."

"I see your point. Okay, well, I guess I can take a look at it."

After lunch they cleared the table for their inspection, but every time Sam got close to the bird it cooed indignantly at him and flew off to a higher location. He felt highly ridiculous chasing a bird around the apartment for a good half hour, even when Storm tested her 'mental link' with it to see if it would come down.

"It worked back at the motel," she insisted as Sam was trying to scare it off the ceiling fan with the end of a broom. It flapped its white wings menacingly at him, head bobbing irritably as its black eyes stared down at him.

There was a knock on the door and Sam and Storm looked at each other uncertainly.

"Probably Brad," said Storm. "I gave him a call earlier but he said he wanted to see me face-to-face."

Sam was still swatting vaguely at the bird with the broom, even climbing atop the couch to get a better angle.

As expected, when Storm opened the front door Brad's baby-round face was revealed. She watched his blue eyes widen beyond measure, suddenly possessed with staring so intently at Storm it was as if he wanted to fry a hole through her skull. True, he was so rapt up in staring at her that it seemed he completely blocked out Sam's small grunts of annoyance in the background.

"Hi, Brad. I'm okay. And not kidnapped."

"Well, you coulda fooled me. Where—why didn't you _tell _anyone you were going on a road trip? Where _were _you? And who's _he—_"

Brad had just caught sight of Sam standing on top of the couch, broom in hand and nudging the ceiling fan which was circulating the dove, still cooing. Obviously sensing attention, Sam turned and spotted Brad, giving a tight and awkward smile, waving the broom in greeting.

"Hey."

"Wha . . ." Brad's eyes flickered up the dove, to Sam, and then back to Storm."What's—goin' on here?"

"I met Sam a few years ago—he was actually the one who found me," Storm said as Brad entered the apartment, but he stopped at Storm's words to stare at her some more.

"Found you? Like, on the road? Like _the _person who found you? Right before you woke up with amnesia?" He looked at Sam who was off the couch now, standing awkwardly with the broom still in hand.

"Yes," said Storm.

"What's he doing here?"

Storm's eyebrows rose a little. "He was passing through on a road trip. Asked me to join him for a couple days. I did. It was last minute so I forgot to contact anyone. I, uh, was planning on quitting the cafe anyway."

"But you love it there!"

"Brad, you're here at a bit of an awkward time. I'm sorry," she said, and she truly looked it. Putting down Brad was a bit like putting down an annoying child who you knew meant well.

"Awkward. Like chasing down pigeons with brooms suffices as an awkward situation."

"It got trapped in here."

"Look, Storm, I've been really worried about you. It's been about a week. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yes, but—" Her eyes drifted briefly onto Sam. Brad just made the situation so much harder. How could she explain to him that she would most likely never be returning here after they left tomorrow? If they just left how could she be certain he wouldn't call the cops and hang up missing poster signs of her?

"Brad . . . um, I'm quitting work because . . . I'm going away for awhile. I can't tell you why," she said quickly as Brad opened his mouth again. "It's nothing bad. But, I'm not going to be around. Not for a while, probably."

Brad stared at Storm, his jaw slackened with disbelief. He looked temporarily dumbstruck. It took him awhile to recover himself, and when he did, he shut his jaw with a snap. He looked between the pair of them, hands on his waist.

"Okay," he said slowly, and his calm, almost sly tone surprised them. "O_kay. _I see what's going on here." He pointed a finger at Sam accusingly. "You're a doctor."

"Um . . ."

"Storm would have mentioned the guy who found her a long time before now. Disappearing unexpectedly, going away for a long time an' not being able to tell anyone where you're going? You're some high tech doc who's here to help Stormy with her amnesia, aren't you? And you can't tell me because it involves some—some confidential reasoning because it's new and you can't expose it to the public!"

Sam soundlessly mouthed the word 'Stormy'.

"You spend way too much of your time in comic books, don't you?" Sam said.

"You're saying you're not a doctor?"

"I'm—" He looked quickly at Storm, waiting for an affirmative but she only shrugged, torn between exasperation with Brad and amusement at the look on Sam's face. "Er . . . no?"

"So you are one?"

Sam shrugged weakly.

"I knew it," Brad whispered, as though Sam had just come clean to being Batman to his biggest fan. "You found some method to reversing amnesia, haven't you? You have some top secret lab in Europe that Storm has to go to?"

"Uh . . ."

"Well I understand." Brad actually clapped him on the shoulder. "Well, good on you. I don't like the idea of Storm going away, but as long as she's finally getting some help."

Sam's brows continued to knit together, looking quite unsure of what just happened.

It didn't take much time to get Brad to leave after that. He left his contact information (which ranged from email to fax) with Storm and made her swear to keep in touch when she went off to 'Europe' and to bring him back some souvenirs.

"He's—a character," said Sam.

"He's unique, yes. Now let's get this stupid bird so I can get back to watching 'Seinfeld'."

In the end, it was Sam leading the bird down with some bread crumbs that lay in the palm of his hand. Finally, he snatched the thing and it did little to resist besides nipping him gently on the finger. He sat down at the table with Storm standing beside him, examining the bird from basically every angle. He even upturned the feathers a bit. There didn't seem to be anything peculiar about it. Except—

"Huh," he said, pressing two finger against its soft chest. "It doesn't seem to have a heartbeat."

"No heartbeat?"

"None that I can tell, anyway." He took another minute of examination, sure that there was no pulse, not even a real warmth coming from it. Eventually he let it scurry out of his hands and waddle across the table to divulge itself within the bread pieces again. He scratched his brow, sighing out, "I have a theory."

"Tell me," said Storm who seemed relieved to hear such words.

"When we were helping Anna, we found out that her grace and her fell as separate things. When Anna got her grace back, she also got back all her angel mojo. Mean, it's kinda a long shot since Anna's grace wasn't an animal . . . but you say you feel like it 'charged' you when you held it. Do you think that the dove can be some version of an angel's grace? Like, _your _grace?"

Storm dropped into the chair opposite him, leaning forward with her fingers massaging her parted lips with wonder. Her eyes were on the bird which was struggling to choke down a large piece of crust.

"I—Sam, I—" Her eyes met his. "I think that's closest we've ever gotten to answering a single darned question."

"I mean it 'fell' with you," said Sam, running on a rush of triumph, the fingers of his left hand absently running through his hair. "They said you fell from Heaven, and if you have some kind of a grace, that would make you some kind of . . . angel adjacent. Maybe?"

"Maybe," Storm echoed, but Sam could see her mind whirring behind her eyes. She sat up straight, staring off into the corner of the room as she thought. "But, _adjacent. _If Anna getting her grace brought back her 'angel mojo', what kind of mojo would I get if I got mine back?"

Simultaneously, they both looked back at the dove.

"Uriel was terrified when I got my hands on it," said Storm after a solid thirty seconds of silence. Again, she thought for another moment. "I don't know whether to consider that good or not." She ran her tongue along her front teeth. "And someone imprinted on the jukebox glass 'Athedas equals ax'. Ax. What does—oh God, I don't know."

"We're getting somewhere," said Sam quickly. There was another pause as Sam's eyes drifted to the sliding doors where he could see a layer of hail covering most of the balcony.

"Sam?"

"Mm?"

"If the dove is my grace, that is only telling us that I am some form of angel, but not exactly what I am. We don't have much to go on, and if Uriel or Castiel were never to tell me, then possibly the only way to find out would be to . . . _absorb _the dove's power—or whatever."

Like a light switch had been flipped, Sam snapped out of his daze. He looked at her steadily.

"But I would rather wander forever not knowing what I am than take that risk," she went on. "There's no way of telling what I would become. Better to sit in a life of endless questions than to end it now because of some stupid curiosity."

"Storm—" Sam shook his head with a vague laugh, but he didn't find anything very funny. His hand twitched to reach out to her, but she already unconsciously withdrew her arm from the table and Sam curled back his fingers. "There's gotta be some other way to find out."

"And we will keep looking. I am only saying that if there is absolutely no way of figuring it out, then I'm fine with contenting myself with that fact."

"Fine?" he said skeptically.

"Willing, I suppose. To be safer than sorry-er." She considered. "Sam, this is very off topic, but may I ask you a very personal question?"

A little taken aback, Sam leaned back and his chair and nodded once. "What's up?"

"As I said, I do not hear angels very often, but back in September, clear as bells as you say, they chanted 'Dean Winchester is saved' continuously. I have had time to ponder what exactly it was he was saved from, but I wanted to ask for a confirmation. Was it Hell?"

Storm's tender tone made it clear Sam was only to answer if he was of mind to.

"Ye—it's a really . . ." he coughed, "_really _long story."

"I'm not asking for the story."

He met her eyes, a small weight relieving from his chest as he breathed out. Somehow, he found he didn't really mind talking about it with her.

"Yeah," he said, not sure what else to say so adding again, "yeah."

Storm's eyes seemed to be measuring his face. After another moment or so, she said, "I hope that it's okay that I asked."

"Of course it's okay. You're gonna be traveling with us, probably for some time, and it's better if we get out all the heavy stuff now." He breathed out again. "But—don't worry about it. We'll just focus on what's on our plate now."

Another slight pause. "I'm . . . going to enjoy traveling with you—and your brother." She went a little pink and added, "But I don't know how much help I would be on your hunts. Maybe in exchange for exploding a few demons you can give me gun training?"

For some reason Sam simply could not imagine Storm as a hunter. Not that he didn't think her capable, but she was far too gentle, gave off a 'would feel bad about squishing a spider' vibe. It would be like handing a pistol to a rose flower.

Still, he said with a small smile, "Remind me when we get on the road again."

"I don't trust my memory; remind me to remind you."

Sam laughed, just as a soft cooing caught his attention. The dove was nipping his knuckles, almost affectionately, like a puppy asking for a pet.

"I think she likes you now," said Storm.

"And all it took was for me to chase her down with a broom. I should have tried that in high school."

"And bread. We like bread."

Sam chuckled again as he uncertainly trailed his forefinger over the top of the dove's head and down its long neck. It ruffled its feathers and its eyes fluttered shut, looking ready for a good nap.

"I'm naming her Wilma," said Storm.

"Wilma?" Sam almost coughed.

"She looks like a Wilma."

"Wilma the dove." Sam cocked his head in consideration, shrugging. He checked his watch and then looked up at Storm. "We still have that movie if you wanna watch it."

Storm made herself a cup of tea along with some coffee for Sam. He was figuring out how the DVD player worked when she entered the living room with a mug in each hand, a bag of Cheetos wedged between her teeth.

Storm waited on the couch as Sam put the disc in the player, quickly making sure the volume was high enough before plopping on the spot beside her, smiling at her slightly before focusing half of his attention on the screen.

Within the first scene, Sam noticed she was the type of person to say aloud 'Is _he _the bad guy?' or 'Who's he? What's he planning on doing?'.

Seeing as Sam had seen the movie over a billion times from the countless times cheap motel cable replayed it, he was only watching it a billion and one for her enjoyment. He thoroughly enjoyed her little comments that others would have normally found annoying. She smiled slightly as the character Storm was introduced, flipping her long ponytail jokingly.

They sat with less than five inches between them, both of their palms facing upward and about an inch apart. He was constricted by the confusing but undeniable impulse to seize her hand. He knew if Dean had been in his place, he would have grabbed it by now—no, scratch that; his hand would have been sliding up her thigh.

The thought triggered his eyes to travel there most unintentionally. Because of her criss-crossed position, it had caused her shorts to ride up along her pale legs. The moment Sam realized he was staring, he looked determinately at the TV with a small flush in his cheeks, feeling a little ashamed of himself.

Sam almost started to regret introducing her to the film because she was soon paying more attention to it than him. Though it wasn't a waste; there was something endearing about seeing her eyes flicker whenever another twist of the movie's plot was revealed, or how she hugged the couch pillow the deeper she got into the story. Sam suddenly wondered if he should have followed Dean's advice and rented something like _Night of the Living Dead, _thinking it might earn him a few more scared-cuddling situations.

Still, Storm's open hand taunted him. It was amazing how much more difficult it seemed to stretch his hand an inch to the left and lace his fingers through hers rather than reaching out a machete to decapitate a vampire. He felt foolishly as if he were back in the eighth grade.

Toward the end of the movie however, Storm had removed her hand to help hug the pillow to her stomach, no longer talking much and eyes glued to the screen.

As the credits started to roll, she finally turned to him and said, "So obviously Magneto escapes. Does he go after the Rogue girl again?"

"You'll have to get the sequel," smiled Sam as he got to his feet to turn off the TV, the sudden absence of its noise suddenly making the air slightly expectant. He sat back down beside her, inquiring a question he thought he already knew the answer to, "So who was your favorite character?"

But to his surprise, she said, "Magneto." And when he raised his eyebrows: "Yes, he's the bad guy and went insane defending his rights as a mutant, but his insanity proves how wrong the morals of the humans are. You can see that he would've actually been a good man had he just acquired the thing we all want: Freedom, equal rights. Though his choices were his own and wrong, I liked him for his passion for justice. If he used it differently, maybe he would've gotten what he wanted."

"You got even more into it than I thought," said Sam with another uncertain smile.

"Each character in a movie or film has a story to tell, even if fictional."

_You're really something._

"Then what was your favorite part?" he asked.

"When Storm fried that toad guy to oblivion of course!" she said with a malevolent laugh, jokingly reaching out both of her hands out at the television as though she were a magician performing a trick.

The TV exploded.

Sam jumped back, hitting his head on the side of the desk and almost falling off the couch. Immediately the smell of burning plastic burned his nose and he stared with eyes equally as wide as Storm's at the TV which had collapsed down the middle, a small flame escaping from the large crack. Storm looked just as bewildered as he, scrambling to get to her feet and picking up a blanket with her whole fist and darting toward the fire and patting it down fiercely. Meanwhile, Sam darted to the kitchen and hastily filled a large bowl with water and dumped it on the growing fire.

When there was nothing left but a destroyed television and a thick tendril of gross-smelling smoke rising into the air, the two looked at each other simultaneously, the blanket still in her hands and the bowl in his.

"I guess the sequel will have to wait," said Sam finally.

"I—am—_so—_sorry," she said with large eyes.

The genuine fear in Storm's eyes actually made him laugh. She watched him with a small frown as his laugh intensified, suddenly finding the whole ordeal ten times more amusing now that the panic had died down. Storm herself smiled timidly, fondling the blanket nervously as an involuntary chuckle left her lips. Once the laughter came, it was difficult to stop. Storm plopped back down on the couch, lowering her face into the blanket but her shoulders were still shaking with hearty chortles.

"Oh my God," she said, raising her head to look up with Sam, a smile still on her face but looking absolutely exasperated. "It's not even funny but I don't know what else to do but laugh at this point."

Sam, his chest still fluttering with the chuckles that had died down, sat back down beside her.

"Better to smite unarmed televisions, I guess," he said.

Storm was feeling that she just might be done with feeling surprised with anything anymore. She massaged her brow, an ache behind her eyes as her gaze focused back on her ruined television.

"You okay?" Sam asked.

"Physically, completely. Yes, I think I am." Except so, _so _tired all of a sudden. She wanted to lower her face in her hands but resisted the impulse, instead rubbing her nose and forcing herself to her feet. She indicated the TV without much enthusiasm. "Should we bother cleaning this up?"

"It's up to you," he said, the note of concern remaining in his voice. "You think your landlord will stop by once you've been gone for a few months?"

"And wonder why it looks as though a lightning bolt has struck my television? Probably, but . . . I'm not concerned." Storm blinked, frightened by the fact that within the fraction of a second her eyes had been closed, she felt unconsciousness almost take her. Was she _that _tired? "Sam, I'm going to bed. See you in the morning?"

Sam nodded slowly, a little put off by her abrupt dismissal. Although exhausted, she still helped him pull out the couch and make the bed. She bid him goodnight and exited into her room, lightly shutting the door.

Sam sat in the living room alone for a few minutes, twiddling his thumbs together and glancing from Storm's door to the dove. He breathed out heavily, getting to his feet and entering the bathroom, flipping a switch that showered the little room with white light. The mirror was one of those distorted and cheap ones that looked dimly like a fun house accessory. Squeezing out a marginal amount of toothpaste on the spare toothbrush, he leaned back against the sink as he brushed his teeth. He bent over to undo the ties of his boots, kicking them off on the bathroom floor. He raised his head to see the door connecting Storm's bedroom and the bathroom was slightly ajar, giving him a clear view of a dresser at the foot of a futon. And Storm, who stood with her back to him, sliding her shirt over her head and tossing it to the floor, wearing nothing but polka dot underwear. Even after the shock of his eyes being overwhelmed by her nearly completely naked figure, he simply could not help but to bow to the desire to keep staring. Her hair was like liquidized pearls made solid, falling low under her pale shoulder blades. The dip of her spine left the smallest shadow in the center of her back and there was a way her muscles and bones moved under her fair skin which clothing generally concealed, almost graceful innocence.

It was a while before Sam realized he was brushing his chin instead of his teeth, blushing all the way down to his navel and looking so harshly away that he hit the side of his face into the open medicine cabinet. He accidentally swallowed a mouthful of Crest toothpaste and spit furiously into the sink, quickly washing out his mouth before almost tripping out the door.

Falling into bed, he wrenched the covers up to his chin, trying desperately not to picture the rest of her he might have seen had he not moved.

But also slightly, _guiltily_ wishing that he was a little less of a gentlemen so that he wouldn't have felt bad about staying. But then he realized that that was basically wishing to be like Dean.

He turned over, holding his pillow over his head, frustrated and just a little bit ashamed. No, he knew it wasn't too much of a big deal, just a little bit of eyeball failure when he tried to look away.

Eyeball failure. He chuckled aloud at probably the stupidest excuse he had ever come up with.

He just respected Storm, and didn't want to be labeled a peeping Tom.

It was also utterly useless to try and convince himself he didn't like what he saw . . .


	10. Talons and Fire

**I'm specializing in nightmares for this story. Sorry about the vivid scenarios. I might even consider it a possible trigger. **

**Thank you for your reviews :]**

_-Ten-_

Talons and Fire

More than ever the Uriel's cool smile was stranded together with ice, defiance, and a look of forcefulness. He stood like he usually did; hands folded in front of him, chin lifted a little so his eyes could peer down with superiority. Right now, they were locked upon Storm who stood in the middle of that meadow, listening to the usual distant birdsong.

"You must be getting tired of our faces being the only ones you see when you're unconscious," he said in a tone one would assume he was a lighthearted father trying to gingerly show their child the error of their ways. "Apparently even spineless little birds can be rebellious."

Storm gave no indication that she could hear him. She was taking the time to fully examine the meadow for the first time. Behind her was a large gathering of trees, its depths a green too dark for the eyes to penetrate. It was sunset, the field and sky set aflame with a blood orange glow. Fireflies went in and out of vision and there were crickets singing amidst the fields of swaying grass and flowers. It was still pleasantly warm, peaceful, safe. It was similar to the feeling Storm had every time in the same room with Sam.

"The cold shoulder," Uriel purred. "I can understand that, considering all we've done is try to save you and the people around you."

Storm's eyes darted coldly to his.

He went on with a small shrug, "And the truth is, you're not the only one tiring of these games. I won't tell you and neither will Castiel. Do not get your hopes up about him; he knows where his loyalties lie and the consequences of broken orders."

Storm still didn't anything, waiting for the punchline. Uriel's eyebrows rose a little, waiting for her to speak, and when she did not, he chuckled, the sound dry as chalk.

"Well, what do you know? You could actually pass as a looker if you keep your beak snapped shut." Suddenly Uriel wasn't smiling anymore and the lack of it was something of a relief to Storm; she couldn't focus on anything else when that stupid smile beckoned her to punch it off his face. "I'm sure that little brain stuffed between your ears might have worked out why we won't even consider telling you? We don't need to. When you eventually kill one of the Winchesters, that will be reason enough for you to come crawling back, begging us to take you away, to save _every_one. By staying, you'll only prove our point."

It wasn't that Storm chose not to speak anymore; her tongue was tied in such a mass string of anger and hate that her brain couldn't keep up with which one to throw first. Her cheeks burned, fingers gripping nothing, imagining his head exploding off his shoulders.

"It's my job to get you back, and I will be _damned," _he laughed out the ironic word in a maddening spit, looking quite demented with his eyes bugging out, "if you smash down my reputation from keeping me from accomplishing a simple errand. You want freedom, little birdy, then I will show you what your _freedom _will do to the world."

Silence never seemed to have its own sound until every single possible noise was sucked from the world. The birds, the crickets, the wind, Uriel's jeers; everything was gone. Storm could hear her eyelashes blinking as she took a step backward, the sound of her bare foot crinkling in the grass like an explosion.

Storm's brain took several seconds to compute what was happening to her surroundings. The sun had turned off, but the sky was filled with lava, streaks of bold orange and glowing red. The color alone burned Storm's eyes.

As she took another step back, the grass crunched under her toes. She looked down, seeing what moments ago had been healthy, swaying emerald green grass was now completely singed and brittle.

And finally, when she looked up a golden pole, slight thicker than her arm, stood in her path. Not _a _golden pole, but a thousand, all building a circle around her, turning into a dome shape at the top. A magnificent, humungous, golden birdcage had been placed around her. It glowed a whitish gold, heat waves coursing menacingly, licking at Storm's face as she stood there, feeling the scorching metal dry all moisture from her eyes. Immobility poisoned her muscles and bones, only able to flicker her eyeballs left and right, examining the horrid wasteland of a world that had once been her evident place of sanctuary.

And then the flapping. The flapping like a million feathered wings repeatedly beating against each other. Feathers were falling around Storm like confetti, feathers of white, black, blue, red, gray, multicolored, but all due to perhaps the thousand birds that had erupted from oblivion into the cage with her. From the force of them Storm was slammed against the scalding metal bars, screaming as she felt it burn the flesh from her face.

There was fire rising from the ground and up, up around them in a blinding whir of fiery hurricane, burning away all Storm's hair and scalp, making her skin start to bubble and sizzle until singed to a black crisp. The birds were clawing into her back, hitting the bone, the putrid smell of their burning feathers swarming thickly into the tornado of fire. And that sound . . . that horrible, absolute unearthly sound of a million tortured squawking, chirping birds drawn out into a single hell-like serenade that writhed in the air like a solid and monumental explosion.

Storm waited for the fire to obliterate her, to bleed out from the wounds all of her body, to die in anyway_, _but only by the second did the fire gain a degree. She couldn't hear her screams, only feel the dull vibration of it in her skull and the tear it had slit in her throat.

"_STORM!"_

Storm was sure she had dropped a few feet onto her bed as her eyes snapped open, her chest heaving upward as she sucked in a desperate breath for her suffocated lungs, but she only choked. Her entire body was shaking like put on vibrate, her fingers trembling as much as two inches back and forth, her pajamas soaked with sweat. She was still swatting away the birds, rubbing the melting blisters on her face.

She gasped again, but still all she breathed in was smoke, which must have gone to her brain because it was just now that she saw her room was completely up in flames.

"_SO—" _Storm didn't know what she was trying to shout; somewhere between 'Sam' and 'no'. She was absolutely petrified, her heart seeming to pound directly up from her chest, up her throat, and onto her tongue.

"_**STORM! **__YOU NEED TO—"_

But Storm didn't hear what she needed to do because there was suddenly an explosion that drowned out Sam's voice completely, like a giant metal object being hurled through a wall. The shock of the sound seemed to jolt sense back into her because she was throwing aside her flaming blanket with her still-quivering hand.

"S-Sam," she croaked. She had meant to scream, but the feeble whisper barely left her words as a miserable crack. _Forcing _strength back into her legs that felt like they had been repeatedly beaten with metal bats, she ran across the room with her arms shielding her stinging eyes. Everything was a blinding orange and yellow, the crackle and spitting of the fire like a solid entity that pounded against Storm's eardrums. Choking on black smoke and eyes watering so heavily that tears were streaming down her cheeks, she held her sleeve to her mouth. Storm anticipated the door handle to be as scorching as the metal cage bars in her dream, but intended to let it blister her anyway. She couldn't do it; the second the tips of her fingers grazed the metal, she flinched her hand back. Ripping off her shirt, she wrapped it thickly around her hand and getting just a tight enough hold over the knob to knock the door open.

Storm saw why Sam had been unable to get into her room; just outside the door the fire had burned a gaping, flaming hole which revealed the next floor down. Sam was standing in the living room, shielding his eyes and looking as though he had been preparing to jump but his eyes widened with horror and relief as he saw her standing there.

"Storm, you need to _jump!_" he screamed. "_JUMP!"_

This action included passing through about two feet high flames, but she was willing to risk that rather than being burned alive in her room. She didn't even have time to get a proper footing or wonder how big the hole was, she was just suddenly soaring. Sam's hand caught her forearm in a vise-grip before her foot even touched the ground again, almost slipping. Her pant leg was on fire but Sam was already gripping her shoulder, using his jacket to pat it out instantaneously.

Sam kicked down the front door to reveal a hallway where the fire hadn't widely spread yet. If Storm didn't know any better, she might have weighed about as much as a penny from how effortlessly Sam seemed to nearly drag her off her feet and out into the hall. Fire alarms were going off, every sprinkler on the ceiling showering freezing water down upon them. Storm only vaguely wondered why they didn't go off in her room.

Sam never once removed his iron grip from her shoulder as they sprinted down the hallway, joined by the other panicked people of the apartment, the alarm ringing in their ears. Storm's legs were trembling so badly, every muscle like gelatin and threatening to crumble beneath her, yet she kept moving, her body still showered with icy sweat.

She seemed to trip and fumble down every step on the staircase, yet still Sam was there to steady her, help her recover her footing instantly. Reaching the front entrance seemed to take an hour but once out in the freezing fall air, Storm gasped and choked, every intake of fresh night air seeming to make her only more desperate for more.

Firetrucks and policemen were driving in from all sides of the street, along with people in their night clothes running out onto the sidewalk to see what was happening. Sam let her fall to the pavement, crouching beside her as she bent over, the ground cutting into her knees as she vomited over the side of the sidewalk for a full thirty seconds.

When done, her lower lip was trembling with spit running down her chin, her face red and drenched with cold sweat. Halfway through her attack, Sam must have pulled his long-sleeved flannel and jacket around her, still keeping his hands firmly on her back. She realized she had only been wearing her bra and pajama pants, but could think of nothing else she cared less for.

She didn't need to turn around to know the apartment was still up in flames; its orange light illuminated the entire block, making Storm have a solid stretched shadow along the road.

"Storm . . ." Sam was beckoning her to move but Storm wondered if feeling would ever return to her legs, or if she wanted them to. "Hey, will you give her some air!? Storm, they're telling us to move. Storm . . ."

Storm didn't know who 'they' was. The people in the thick black uniforms were shouting words that seemed to be taking ages to travel from Storm's ears to her brain.

"Sam."

"I'm here," he said quickly. He squeezed her arm as if she were a blind person that needed guidance to locate him. "I'm here, Storm. Storm—"

With one hand on his shoulder and her palm pushing down hard into the pavement, she heaved herself onto her feet with little remembrance how a human body was supposed to work. She let Sam lead her away from the apartment and about ten feet to the nearest firetruck. Only when they reached the back of it did she realize that a paramedic was with them and had been talking the whole time, asking Storm questions that she had completely blocked out.

"In shock," the female paramedic murmured, and then shooting at Sam, "Look, I'm gonna need you to take care of your friend here while I start handing out blankets. I'll be right back to disinfect that scrape."

She gave Sam and Storm two green blankets and told them to sit tight in the back of the firetruck. Sam still had a tight arm around Storm's shoulders who was slowly coming back into focus of her surroundings, of the policemen and firemen running around, the giant hose being used to water down the finally dying fire of her old apartment building.

Storm had never been so grateful for Sam's silence, who seemed to get the gist that asking what happened was simply redundant until she recovered herself.

Her heart had slowed, the sweat had subsided, her limbs weak but workable. But the terror still brutally cold.

She tightened her blanket around her, closing her eyes. Against her closed eyelids, the fire created an unforgiving blackish crimson color which made her open them immediately.

Families were gathered around, all in their pajamas, most trying to comfort one another. With everyone in the building in front of her, Storm realized how little of her neighbors she actually got to know. She only recognized about three or four people. One little girl who lived on her floor was clutching a mewing white kitten to her chest, consoled by her mother. A couple with a lot of piercings and tattoos Storm had acquainted as Polly and Jared were hugging each other tightly.

She looked up at Sam. There was a cut just above his right eyebrow but was not bleeding. Otherwise, he seemed completely unscathed, apart from a few soot stains here and there. Apparently sensing her revival of reason, he shook his head slowly, his eyes scanning her face with utter disbelief.

"Sam," she rasped, sounding like she had been denied water for ten years. "I can't."

"What—" He seemed totally unable to think of what to even say. "Storm . . ."

"I can't come with you."

Sam stared at her, opening his mouth, a protest building on his tongue, but if there was ever a time to argue, it was least of all now.

The fire had been put out but they were still searching for trapped people inside. If anyone had been hurt or killed, there was no doubt it had been her, Storm's, fault. Because she was an unnamed creature with no means of control. She had almost . . . Sam could have been hurt so much more, and there was no telling what she would have done with herself if he had been killed. She didn't need to be conscious to set hell to the world; all it took was a bad dream and everything around her faced annihilation.

It was the loneliest thought she had ever conceived, seeming to tangle throughout her whole body like a swollen, ugly, twisted root. She swallowed and felt like there was a rock wedged in the back of her throat, her eyes burning as she watched the black smoke finally dissipate into the indigo background of the night sky. Trying to keep in the howl of misery was like attempting to whip an enormous evil beast back into its cage.

Sam looked down at her, his throat tight and ears ringing. The adrenaline was only just evaporating from his veins, but he was absolutely dumbstruck of what to think, what to even assume.

When he had awakened to the smell of fire . . . it had been so stupid to assume that it was _him _after years of his death. But when he couldn't reach Storm, thinking that she just might be pinned up to the ceiling—

Sam's thoughts came to a screeching halt, swallowing thickly, feeling as if brittle weeds were trapped under his uvula.

Somehow he knew that silence was essential, no matter how confused he was. It was so hard to think over the inane buzz in his brain, but he thought at least that in some degree he could comfort her.

He squeezed her shoulder again and she vaguely lifted her head to look at him, her eyes meeting his, the most hopeless eyes he had ever seen, yet still giving him permission of his mute question. Smoothing his hand down the back of her head, he eased her against him with his arms tightly around her. He sensed a second of reluctance, but the moment her head hit his chest it seemed to crumble away, every tightened muscle relaxing under his embrace as she let herself to be comforted by him.

It seemed so odd that less than twenty-four hours ago Storm had been trying to make him wear a wizard's hat, that they had been relaxed by a fire drinking mochas, or he had been torn by the dilemma to hold her hand.

.

Eleven hours later, Storm sat in the bedroom of the Sleepy Star hotel, based on the very end of town where not that many people lived. She was seated on the edge of a bed, a cramp in her big toe, 'Yesterday' by The Beatles playing quietly on the radio, listening to the brothers in the other room who thought she was sleeping. She was desperately resisting to, her head feeling like it had the weight of a bowling ball. The soft bed, pillow and sheets became so tempting that she got up and sat up on the large window sill where it was much more uncomfortable, weary eyes scouring the gray streets many stories below.

She was working so hard on not closing her eyes that she ended up not blinking altogether, her eyes burning, terrified of the concept of one more dream. She rubbed a bruise on her forearm she had no memory of getting, pulling her hair, digging her nails into her skin; anything to keep her in reality.

" . . . Do you know if she actually started the fire?" This was Dean.

"I don't know." Sam sounded as exasperated as she felt. His voice was a lot quieter than his brother's, evidently more afraid of Storm overhearing them. "She was just—just screaming her head off and then her room was on fire."

"Last time she had a dream of Hell. She mention what she saw this time?"

"She talked with Uriel. She was pretty shaken up, but she explained being in some . . . I dunno, giant birdcage that was on fire with a billion other birds, burning alive."

A long silence followed that one.

"So Uriel cooks her an' a few other feathered friends extra crispy and it happens in real life? An' she made a tornado of furniture last time she had a nightmare. Sounds like a stable sleeping pattern. I don't know, man. When you start sleep-elementaling you're puttin' a lot of people in danger. You included. Lucky no one got hurt or killed back there."

"And what if they did, Dean? What if they did and it _wasn't _her fault? What would you do?"

This silence was much colder.

"Sam, I know you like her. I do too; seems like a sweet girl—"

"Don't even go there, Dean."

"Well, we gotta go there! Where else, Sam? She almost turned you into a medium rare platter by havin' a _nightmare. _You can't tell me that that's not basically walkin' 'round with—"

"With _what?_"

"With a time bomb!"

"So, what're we gonna do? Just dump her out on the street? Let Uriel take her for whatever they have in store for her? Let the angels win? _What _do you want to do, Dean?" He barely waited a beat before saying, "We're not leaving her."

Another silence.

"We don't have any idea how to control somethin' when we don't even know what th' hell that somethin' is! She's proved more than once that she can do some serious damage. What would you do if she hurt someone, Sammy? Killed someone?" He was turning Sam's own question against him.

"Look, those dreams she had? Hell, being burned alive? They're obviously something that would be emotionally triggering. Maybe that's how her powers work; on emotions.

"An' who are you? Mr. Sandman?"

"I'm just saying, if she could learn how to control her emotions and feelings, maybe block out the dreams, she could have a chance at controlling this without even having to figure out what she is."

There was a beat before Dean said, "That's a lotta if's and maybe's, Sam. You willin' to take that chance?"

"She's completely innocent, Dean. She doesn't remember anything. She hasn't hurt anyone but a demon." Sam distinctly forgot to mention the man in the alleyway. "Heaven's after her and—and who knows what happens if they get a hold of her. Who even knows if she actually started the fire? Maybe it was Uriel, trying to convince her to go to them."

Dean stared at his brother, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed, glancing at the floor before turning his back to Sam. He shook his head, wiping a hand down his face and biting his cheek. He looked back at him.

"I'm worried about you, man."

"Why?"

Dean leaned against the back of the couch. His voice lowered, as if he suddenly cared about Storm hearing him. "Just—you gotta know this might not end as smoothly as you hope it might. I don't want you to get anymore hurt than you need to be."

Sam adjusted his jaw, resting his hands on his waist. "This hasn't got anything to do with me, Dean."

Dean nodded, but not as though he agreed; a weak head gesture of skepticism. "Yeah, well, I've called Bobby and he's been runnin' the radar for anythin' that could possibly be linked with 'Athedas'."

"And?"

"An' as far as he can tell, the only Athedas known to man is a goat in Russia that races horses. If you think that will lead us to the answer of why all of this is happenin', then you better grab your babushka."

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back on the kitchen counter and rubbing his tired eyes. "We'll find something."

"That song is startin' to sound old, Sam."

"Dean, you know we can't just leave her. I mean, wouldn't you feel better if we could—keep an eye on her?" Sam hated wording it like that, making it sound as if Storm was a constant threat. "She doesn't even have anywhere left to go now and we're not gonna just hand her over when we have no idea what they even want with her. We brought her into this whole mess, don't you think it's our job to get her out?"

Sam watched his brother's face intently, looking for any signs of submission. He stood with his arms folded, wetting his lips and staring Sam directly in the eyes. It was a long while before he said, "Okay, well to start off, if nightmares have been triggerin' her, maybe she shouldn't be sleepin' just now. Sam," he added as his brother moved toward the bedroom door. They met eyes and Dean breathed out heavily. "Listen, we do what we can . . . we see if we can find out what she is. If we can't, or if another episode like last night happens . . . Sam, you know I won't think twice if she ever comes close to hurtin' you."

Sam's jaw tightened. "She won't."

Dean didn't answer.

Storm was already getting to her feet when Sam opened the bedroom door, his eyes measuring the made bed and then flickering to hers. He opened his mouth, but then closed it, drumming his fingers on the doorknob.

"Yes. I did. Hear everything, I mean," Storm said slowly with absolutely no wish to be in pretense to the contrary. "I've been trying to keep awake."

Sam hesitated, shifting guiltily. She looked as though one good flick might make her collapse into a pile of dust. Her general youthful appearance was corrupted by dark purple circles under her eyes which were glossy, unfocused. He wanted more than anything to close the door and give her a hug, but Dean was waiting on them.

"Do you . . . I mean, you should probably eat something," he said, hating himself for this poor display of concern.

Storm walked up to him, the corners of her mouth looking as though the weight of the world was restraining them from smiling. Her fingers just barely brushed up the back of his hand and lightly squeezed his forearm before she walked past him and into the living room. After a moment, he followed.

"I ain't gonna beat around the bush, sweetheart. You look rough," said Dean. Sam gave him a furious glance from behind Storm.

"I agree with you," said Storm. Dean raised his eyebrows. "With the other thing. I don't know how to control it, I never did. I don't think I can until I find out what I am, which I don't know how to do. I don't know where to start."

Storm saw Dean glance at Sam behind her before meeting her eyes again, a severe frown on his face.

"What did Uriel say to you in this dream?" he asked after a few beats. "An' how long have you been havin' 'em?"

"Castiel and Uriel have been making a lot of frequent appearances in my sleep. The first one, Uriel wanted me to turn Anna in, the second, Hell. The third, one that showed me as a child with Castiel. And the fourth being the one I had last night." Apart from the horrid events in the cage, the dream was now a hazy whir of threats from Uriel, but she pressed on, "Uriel said something like—he didn't need to tell me what I am because I would eventually crawl back to him anyway."

"Why?"

"Because of what I would do. Because he said that I would eventually kill one of you."

This was evidently not the best thing to say to reassure Dean in the slightest, and even if her own words were making her heart bleed, she could see no good outcome of lying to the brothers in any way. And even if the thought was a consuming miserable ache that centered in her chest, maybe she wanted them to be afraid of her. She couldn't hurt them if they weren't around to be hurt.

"This is Uriel," said Sam finally and his tone of denial was what hurt Storm the most. She turned to look at him. He was staring at her with wide eyes, shaking his head. "Uriel would say anything to get you to give in, Storm. You don't _know _if you even started that fire. You can't just go to them."

"Why can't I, Sam?"

Sam felt like his tongue had shriveled to a dried up root at her words. He gaped at her.

"I don't need Uriel to tell me what I can and can't do; I know what I can do. And it doesn't even matter if I was the one to start the fire; wherever I am, whoever is doing it, these things _will _happen and anyone around me risks losing their lives. I don't need _him _to tell me that everyone would be a lot safer if I were to go with him."

The silence was like a ringing bell. Storm was still staring at Sam, quite immobile.

"I've fought against them. I've refused to go with them and I set a building on fire. I don't trust anything Uriel says, but it's not about what I want. This is about the people around me, about you and Dean." The weight of her feelings was finally escaping into her voice, which cracked a tone down to a harsh whisper. "I escaped Heaven and I wasn't supposed to. You weren't supposed to find me on that road. You know I shouldn't be here!"

The ceiling light flickered. Dean glanced up at it, moving forward to place a hand on Storm's shoulder to calm her. She went stiff at his touch, but a moment later her muscles relaxed. She bit her lip hard, making her brain focus on the pain before looking back up at Sam.

"Maybe you weren't supposed to be in Heaven to begin with," said Sam. "You were being tortured, Storm. I'm—we're not gonna let you go back to that. There was a reason you escaped. For all we know they want to use you to hurt more people."

Sam wasn't sure where this last assumption came from, but he saw no reason it couldn't be true. He watched her gaze dance across his face, her eyes hard with concentration.

"I'm just—just tired of this endless cycle of confusion, of almost hurting people. I don't know what the right choice is here, but when the angels will do anything to get what they want, waiting around for a miracle to pop up seems like a stupid way to risk your lives."

The silence fluttered morosely in the air, making Sam's ears itch.

"Okay, look," said Dean after a long pause, "no one's doin' anythin' right now. We work on lyin' low and for the meantime, keepin' you off Heaven's radar. Sam's got a point; they're sure goin' through a helluv a lot to get you back, and speakin' from experience, that's not necessarily always a good thing. We've got no idea what they'll do with or use you for once they get their greasy little paws on you. Dunno 'bout you but my bet's on 'nothin' good'."

The words didn't feel any cleaner than dirt on his tongue. But they needed time to think, and they couldn't risk emotions running high, especially with Storm. He could barely stand the look of appreciation Sam had given him.

"Just sit tight, alright? I'll ring up Bobby again, ask if he knows a friend of a friend or someone who might have any clue as to what the _hell _is goin' on. And you," he added to Storm as he pulled out his cell. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the kitchenette. "Coffee maker's over there. Sam, I'm thinkin' takeout. Anythin' dumpling-y."

Dean excused himself out onto the balcony, shutting the door firmly behind him. Sam wanted to know if his brother had any alternative motives with his conversation with Bobby, but he soon forgot his suspicions as soon as he realized he and Storm were alone again.

They both attended to their assigned 'jobs' which at least gave them something else to think about. Storm made her coffee, drinking it black and trying not to show discomfort as she sipped the horrible beverage. Sam ordered Chinese and the three all sat in uncomfortable silence around the table, the only sound being the chewing of food. As expected, Bobby had about negative ten theories on what Storm was. There was no lore whatsoever on a being, angel or demon, creature or spirit, that could make things explode, teleport, or send furniture flying around a room—no matter how far back he went with the textbooks.

Sam considered this news better left unsaid, but it didn't seem as though Storm was letting it affect her. He was sitting at the table with his laptop, going through countless articles about everything and anything to do with angels, or anything similar to them. Sam briefly scoured over clauses of something called Nephilim, but the description didn't add up. Also, according to the website, they were considered abominations and neither Uriel or Castiel really gave the impression that they thought her as much.

He laced his fingers together, resting them on his mouth as he unconsciously watched Storm on the couch, her face in a heavy textbook she had got at the library down the street. He knew none of them, no matter how many articles and books they went through, were getting any farther. The hopelessness was starting to close in on him, scratch at the walls of his skull, make his heart feel claustrophobic.

Interrupting his line of thought was the buzz of his phone. Dean, who was sitting on the opposite side of the couch, looked up. Ruby was calling him but he didn't answer it, staring at it until it stopped.

"Who's that?" Dean asked.

"Telemarketer."

She texted him a minute later.

'**No cant be your final answer. You've gotten shabby and you know we cant afford that.'**

Sam stared at the text until he got tunnel vision, the letters hazing across his vision. He thought about replying, but Dean was still watching him. As Storm's eyes flickered up to his, his fingers abandoned his cell.

He deleted the text.

"Okay I don't mean to be a downer or anythin'," said Dean after another solid hour of useless research, "but I don't think we're movin' any further forward. 'Fact, I think we're makin' a B-line in the opposite direction, right back to square one." He rubbed his face and checked his watch; 12:01.

"You can go to bed," said Storm. "I don't think another person makes much of a difference."

"I don't think the three of us put together can make much of a difference." He shut the musty book he was reading with a snap, standing up and plopping it on the coffee table. "I mean, let's face it; the chances of us findin' out your species by bookwormin' it up for hours on end are 'bout as likely as Uriel ever having done the macarena while wearin' a pink tutu and wooden clogs."

"I would have found him far less intimidating if that happened."

"Sammy?"

"Nothing . . . with a captial 'N'."

"What about Pamela? Put Storm in the same kinda hypnosis as she did with Anna?"

"She said that my soul, or brain, or something was too unstable to mess around with hypnosis," said Storm.

"Well, we gotta do somethin'. We keep doin' what we're doin' we're gonna get nowhere fast. And that's in hopes that Heaven doesn't tail our asses first."

"We're not finding anything tonight . . . we know that much," said Sam, massaging his eyes which were burning with exhaustion. "There's gotta be something. _Any_thing."

"I'll believe it when I see it." Dean cracked his back, eying Storm uncertainly as she just finished about her fifth cup of coffee. "Hangin' in there okay?"

"Everything is bearable, at least. It helps when I don't think about it."

He shrugged. "That's somethin'." He clapped his hands together, nodding at the bedroom. "Anyhow . . . gonna go catch up on some Z's."

"Dude, there's only one bed, why should you get it?" said Sam.

"Fair enough. I'll sleep out here on the couch with Storm."

Sam stared up at his brother with narrowed eyes, shifting in his seat. He went back to browsing through websites and Dean smirked. He clapped Sam once on the shoulder before exiting into the bedroom.

Storm got to her feet to wash her cup in the sink and Sam leaned back in his seat, chewing on his cheek as he studied the back of her head. She hesitated with her hand on the sink handle, slowly twisting off the water with her eyes on a bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the counter. She directed a vague smile at Sam over her shoulder.

"I've never drank before. Would you care?"

"I guess if there's ever a time for it, now's pretty perfect . . ." He wouldn't say no to a drink or two himself.

Storm picked up the bottle, unscrewed it, sniffed and then recoiled in disgust. After a moment of hesitance she raised it to her lips and took a very prolonged and generous sip. Sam raised his eyebrows. She started dancing uncertainly on the spot, withdrawing and scrunching up her face, giving a large body shiver. She held it out to him, shaking her head vigorously.

"Take it, take it, take it."

Sam gave a small laugh as he took it, taking a much smaller sip as he watched her fill up a glass of water. "That was probably a bit much for your first time."

"It tastes like nail polish remover mixed with orphan's tears."

He smiled over the bottle as he took another draft.

She slid her back down along the counter, landing with a soft thud on her bottom, resting her glass of water on her knee, tapping her nails on the glass. He held up the bottle in mute offering and she nodded once firmly. After a second he got to his feet only to sit down next to her on the kitchen floor, clearing his throat as he handed her the liquor. She looked at him, her face devoid of any expression Sam could decipher. She curled her fingers around the neck of the bottle, still staring up at him.

"Thank you."

He shook his head questioningly.

"It feels like you're constantly saving me, supporting me. While I think I'm an okay person, I don't see where I gave you much of a reason to be so . . . I just don't understand how you can be sticking your neck out for me like this. After you've seen what happens when I'm around. I could have killed you back in the apartment."

Sam wished he knew what to say to that.

"Storm . . . I think you're great." He wanted to shoot himself for how fucking lame that had just sounded. "I just—I don't know, ever since that night I've felt like I had this responsibility—" No, it was getting worse; he didn't think her as his _responsibility. _He was wishing the Jack was back in his hands. He puffed out a breath and shook his head gently, looking back at her. "Storm, I just don't think you're this horrible thing you're making yourself out to be. You're this sincere, sweet girl—" He stopped himself again. ". . . Can I start over?"

"You started over several times already."

He smiled at little, eying her lips for a second before looking away at the opposite wall. "I think you're capable of controlling what you need to control. Uriel would say anything to make you think otherwise, make you think you're not strong enough so you'd go to them." He was hot in the face for some reason, feeling her studying eyes and daring himself to meet them.

"It's the last thing I want to do," she said after several long beats. "I've had three years on earth to get over that I can't remember my parents or my own name. I don't know how old I am. But I really made something out of the life I got. I stopped feeling sorry for myself. I studied, I was working on my GED, got a job, my own place."

"It's how you take control that makes me think you can handle whatever you are, Storm. If you can start out with nothing and get as far as you've gotten . . . I mean, you didn't even have any memory. If it weren't for all this . . ." He waved a hand to indicate 'this'.

She looked so exhausted that it simply seemed too tired to be allowed. "You're the first person I ever knew, Sam Winchester. You found me and showed me kindness without reason, you visited me every day in that hospital, we played that stupid card game and I drew those stupid drawings, you _named _me." She laughed silently, closing her eyes and leaning her head back on the counter. She licked her lips and opened her eyes to his. "I try to be nice to every stranger because of how nice you were to me, some naked girl you found in the middle of the road. You were the influence of the person I am today."

Sam stared at her, more than ever at a loss of what to say. Something had hit his heart with a pang at her words, touching him deeply. She didn't look put off by his lack of reply. She blinked sleepily at him, raising the bottle to her lips but hesitating before taking another sip. Sam was unconsciously watching her throat as she swallowed and looked away abruptly, scratching the side of his nose.

"But there's a lot I still want to do."

"What do you want to do?" he asked curiously. She laughed silently and her smile, however small, was still genuine. "Seriously. If you could do _any_thing—" He outstretched a hand to enunciate the possibilities, "—what would you do, given the choice?"

She continued to smile up at him, and Sam was so happy to see it that he had to smile back.

"Humor me," he added.

She straightened her back against the counter, breathing out heavily, the air ruffling her bangs. "I would—go to college. Fly in an airplane, go scuba diving with sharks, ride a four-wheeler, climb a mountain, get a tea cozy even if I have no idea what that is . . . go skydiving and figure out what it feels like to fly . . . kiss a boy . . . learn how to properly draw."

She pushed the Jack back into his fingers, which curled along the neck, just brushing hers as she withdrew her hand. He cleared his throat. "It's, uh . . . a cover—for a teapot."

"Mm?"

"A tea cozy. It keeps the tea warm."

"Oh. Well, that suits me."

Sam laughed nervously again as he said, "Have you really never—" He coughed and took another desperate shot of liquor, grateful for its soothing burn in his chest.

"Never kissed a boy?" Sam bit down on an apologetic smile. "Nope. In my defense, one year at an institution away from all of society didn't help. My whole world revolved around that hospital, and I counted on the doctors to tell me how the real world actually worked. While I got the whole sexual education, learned math, history and whatnot, I never learned what shoes go with which skirt, how to go on dates, how to get guys to like you—all the stuff that people generally have a lifetime to understand. My lack of knowledge on everything definitely tended to label me as 'weird' if I ever did grab a chance to interact with others. Some people were into it, though."

"Brad," Sam chuckled.

"Brad." She drummed her fingers on her knee, her leg spreading out slightly so that her sneaker bumped into his foot. "Who, now that I think about it, probably started freaking out once he saw the news this morning."

"He seemed to be genuinely concerned before . . ."

He offered her the bottle again but she shook her head and he screwed the cap back on. Due to the drink, Storm's cheeks were a deep rosy color and there were a few red splotches on her chest. She rubbed her eyes, giving a small yawn.

"Sam?" He peeked up his eyebrows to show his was listening, but the next second, she said, "Never mind."

"Storm?"

"I don't want to bring down the mood."

"It's fine. Say what you wanna say."

It was a moment before she said, "I know we keep on saying we'll find something—but I think Dean is right when he said that reading up on a bunch of books will get us nowhere. I'm trying to see a way out of the alternative, but . . . you know that feeling when you miss a step on a staircase?"

"Yeah."

"I feel like that . . . except the feeling never goes away."

Sam swallowed. "We'll call Pamela tomorrow . . . see if there's any whispers on the spirit realm that we could link to you, or if she would be willing to do a hypnosis."

"Anything."

He watched her fight the weight of her eyelids, her gaze going in and out of focus. "Storm, you can probably sleep. If you need to balance your emotions, you should probably be as healthy as possible, so you should rest."

She studied him, unconvinced. "Dreams are how they reach me."

"Look, I'll—I'll stay right here the entire time. If you even twitch an eyelid, I'll wake you up."

"Sam, you can't give up your sleep for—"

"Just get a few hours of shut eye, then I swear I'll wake you up. I'll rest then."

She was still nervous, but how long could she go on staying conscious? And he was right in saying that the more exhausted she was the more likely she would get ticked off. As if the mere thought of sleep was all it took to bring her will down, the pull of unconsciousness had never been so irresistible.

"Okay."

With a hand on the counter, she heaved herself up onto her feet, and Sam followed in suit. They walked into the living room and sat beside each other on the couch. Storm curled her legs against her chest, facing him, doing everything to keep her eyes open long enough to say, "Thank you." She used her last moment of consciousness to reach out and grasp his hand, her grip ceasing as sleep consumed her.

Sam had never seen anyone fall asleep so fast. Still, he looked down at their fingers loosely intertwined, smiling.

.

_Storm._

How long had it been? Ten minutes? Twenty? Surely he couldn't be waking her up already. She swayed on the bridge of consciousness, her senses dull, not wanting to leave the warm and gentle world of sleep.

But the voice still beckoned her back to cold reality.

_Wake up._

Sensation returned to her, the feel of the leather couch, the smell of Sam's aftershave. Still, she resisted all of it, wanting to dive back into black nothingness.

_Storm, wake up now._

The voice was too urgent to ignore this time. It startled consciousness back into her, making her eyes pop open. There was still no one but Sam and Storm in the living room, and she assumed Dean still slept in the bedroom. She looked around for a clock, couldn't find one, then glanced down at Sam's watch. It was almost 4:30.

Sam had fallen asleep and was breathing deeply. Their cramped fingers were just barely laced together anymore, and Storm gently unstuck them, cracking her knuckles. She was still vaguely intoxicated, her head swimming but for the most part seemed to have a clear mind. Her skin tingled as she remembered the voice, looking around, suddenly on the alert.

_Get up without waking him._

Now that Storm was awake, she was able to mull over that tone of voice, consider its familiarity. And she certainly did know it, but she didn't believe it.

" . . . Anna?"

Sam's nose twitched.

_**Don't **wake him up._

Storm's bones locked with hesitance, her eyes the only thing that moved as they scoured the room. Gingerly, she lifted herself from the couch, holding her breath as she craned her ears for any movement.

But she hadn't heard Anna's voice with her ears; it was a like a speaker had been installed on the wall of her skull, reverberating around her brain, painfully clear. With a huge mental surge, she imagined her thoughts shooting out to wherever Anna may be.

_Where—are you?_

It was terribly discomforting, a bit like trying to get your eyes to roll back into your skull.

_I need you to trust me, Storm._

Storm wasn't certain she could do that. For all she knew, this could be a trick from either Uriel or Castiel, but why would they charade as Anna when they would more likely just knock down the front door? Still, caution prickled at her spine as she stood in the middle of the living room.

_That's asking too much._

_You can't risk the alarm bells right now, Storm. I'm who I say I am._

_Where **are **you?_

_Balcony._

At the word Storm's eyes darted there, mostly seeing her own reflection in the window, but she thought she could make out the figure of a girl. Storm still didn't move, trying to distinguish instinct from fear.

_Before I got back my grace, I offered for you to come with me. I said I felt like I knew you. I was the one who told you that you weren't human._

_Why can't I wake up Sam?_

_Because he won't like what I have to say. Not most of it, anyway._

Storm really couldn't tell if she was believing what she was hearing. This wave of doubt must have sunk into their mental connection because Anna was suddenly saying, _I'm here to help you, but I don't want to 'think' anything in case someone else might be listening in. Please, Storm. I really can't stay in one place for too long. Let me at least say what I came here to say. If you don't like it, forget I was here._

Storm was really wishing the situation wasn't so desperate, but maybe it was this that made her finally walk toward the balcony door. She met Anna's eyes on the other side of the glass, clenching the handle uncertainly before glancing back at Sam. She slid the door open an inch to the right, a stinging breeze of bitter wind nipping at her face. She opened it enough to slide out, hugging her sweater tightly around her, keeping the door slightly open should she need to escape quickly.

Maybe for Storm's comfort, Anna stood a good distance away, her red hair flying about her shoulders as she fixed a serious gaze on Storm. Her tongue was already getting ready to form her first demand, but Anna was speaking harshly over her, a firm string of eight words that made themselves coldly clear over the biting wind.

"I know how to get your memories back."


	11. Experiment

**Sorry about the delay, folks, but I managed to get some actual progress with this story.**

**Hope you enjoy!**

_-Eleven-_

Experiment

Disbelief was still flooding Storm's system. She stared at the angel, her insides constricted with incredulity.

"How'd you find us?" Dean asked slowly. He was leaning against the wall with his arms folded, weary narrowed eyes darting between Anna and Storm. "We've got those angel sigils all over the windows."

"I saw the fire on the news."

"An' where've you been?"

"On the move. Heaven and Hell have it out for me, even more than you," she added to Storm. "Heaven doesn't seem to want anyone to get wind of you yet."

"You know how to get my memories back?" Storm was working hard on not letting herself be overwhelmed by this sudden turn of events, but she felt a little lightheaded.

"I think I know. Listen, Uriel has it out for you personally now. You're making him look like an idiot up there and he's just getting more anxious to get his paws on you." She paused when Dean chuckled appreciatively. Anna went on, "Which means now more than ever you need to be ready. The only thing the angels have been talking about is the 'Athedas' and the Winchesters."

"What about Athedas?" asked Sam.

"The thing is is that no one seems to know, not most of them, anyway. Only a select handful. It's like Athedas is this huge secret project and only the big shot halos get to be involved. A few only know it by the A.X Project . . . but that doesn't tell me anything."

Ax equals Athedas . . .

Storm felt like she accidentally swallowed her tongue. "How are you planning on getting my memories back?"

"I'm not going to pretend anything; it's a long shot, it's a risk, and it won't be easy. Physically or mentally. It's . . well, spell or ritual is a rough word to use, but I don't know what else to call it."

"Ritual?" Dean said skeptically.

"What do I have to do? What does it include?" Storm pressed.

"A few easy-to-get ingredients and—do I remember correctly that you 'fell' with a dove?" As Storm nodded slowly, she added, "You'll need that. It's—not gonna be pretty."

"Why's that?" asked Dean. "How do you even know this 'ritual' is gonna work?"

"The ritual itself is literally meant for clearing the brain completely, wiping out all barricades that could be blocking out your memories," explained Anna. "Except—I don't know how strong your barricades are, especially if they were placed there by angels. Messing with your brain like this . . . something might go wrong."

"How wrong?" said Storm.

"Mentally wrong. You could . . ." Anna measured her carefully with her gaze. "I'm just going to be straight with you. I have no idea if this is going to work. You could go insane. You could end up as a vegetable. Nothing could happen at all. It could make your amnesia stronger. Or you could get your memories back, which I know for a fact the angels do not want happening."

"All the more reason to go full speed ahead," said Dean.

"How did you learn about this ritual?" Sam asked slowly.

"After the night I got my grace, I did my research."

"You're goin' through a lot of effort for one person. I mean no offense," Dean added to Storm, but he was still staring at Anna with a vague smile on his face. "I didn't know you guys were best buds. Helpin' each other with your memories an' all that."

"We knew each other," said Anna. "Somehow, we knew each other. I think after I ripped out my grace and landed on earth, we might have met."

"That would mean that at one point Storm was on earth," said Sam.

"Only one way to find out," said Dean, clapping his hands together and nodding at Anna. "Where do we get these ingredients?"

"Storm," said Sam quickly. "I mean, we should check to make sure it's okay with you."

"Sure, fair enough," said Dean, but he was frowning at Storm. "But it's not exactly like we're gonna get any farther by the rate we're goin'. Angels don't want ya to get your memories? I say take any chance you can to get 'em back."

Everyone was staring at Storm sitting there on the couch. Insanity, immobility; nothing was worse than the dark cloud of endless doubt and confusion that infested her like a parasite. If Storm had the slightest chance to identify her blood, then she agreed with Dean that it was worth taking.

"We're doing it."

Dean nodded. "Alright. We got a game plan." He directed at Anna, "If you found us so quickly, somethin' tells me the others aren't so far behind."

"We should get a move on," Sam agreed.

"Also remember that Heaven and Hell both have their targets set on me so that's doubling the risks of me being around you all." She looked at Storm. "Unfortunately you're gonna need to come run a few errands with me."

"Why?" asked Sam with a frown.

"Just trying to make this thing as safe as possible. I'll explain when we get to where we need to be; the place where she landed three years ago. Stanford. Also, Storm; you need to find that dove before we leave."

"What is all this about a dove?" asked Dean.

"She had a dove in her hands when she 'fell'," said Sam, surprising his brother.

"Snazzy."

It felt wonderful to have something to do, to feel some smidgen of hope to what seemed an endless obstacle course. Yet Storm wasn't fearless for the hours to come, but she couldn't tell whether her fear was based on failing to retrieve her memories, or succeeding.

Anna waited patiently on the couch when Storm helped the brothers pack up. Dean was organizing all of the weapons into his black duffel bag when the white-haired girl approached him.

"Do you need a hand bringing anything to the car?" she asked.

He eyed her for a moment, zipping up the bag and dropping it with a heavy clunk on the table. "Might be a little heavy for ya, sweetheart."

Storm reached for the bag, weighing it in her hand and heaving it onto her shoulder with great difficulty. She puffed out a breath but gave the eldest a vague smile. "It's okay. I think I got it." The way the bag was making her body lean one way was telling Dean otherwise, but he shrugged and picked up his other bag.

They passed Sam who was stashing his laptop back in its case, eying the two as they walked out of the room. They were were completely silent the entire walk down the hallway, down the stairs, and outside into the bitter cold fall air. Storm's shoulder was firm and throbbing as she slid the heavy bag into the backseat of the Impala, meeting Dean's eye from the other side of the car. She crossed her arms over the roof, nervously scratching the back of her hand.

When Dean shut the door, she spoke up before she could second guess anything. "I need to ask you something."

"Big somethin'?"

"Yes."

He shrugged, frowning as the new morning light hit him in the eye. "Shoot."

"Anna said we don't know what will happen when we do this." She started making her way around the front of the car, standing before Dean and frowning up at him. "We really don't. Whether it works, or I go insane . . . I set a building on fire. In my sleep. I really don't want to see what happens if an insane person has that kind of power."

Dean licked his lips but didn't say anything.

"I—feel that you would be more willing—if something went wrong. Really wrong. I can't ask Sam," she added. "Breaking the walls of my amnesia could let out something we're not ready for. I don't know what to expect anymore, so I need to ask you . . . if something _does _go wrong, if I lose control . . ." Storm's eyes fluttered open and closed, and then opened to meet Dean's green gaze. "Kill me."

Dean wasn't prepared for the bluntness of the last two words. He had to mentally refoot himself. He straightened his back, gazing over the top of Storm's head, unconsciously searching for Sam. He wet his lips again, rubbing the corner of his eye.

"There's the off chance that this is actually gonna work."

"I know. I can't tell you how much I hope it does. If it doesn't, I need to know that you'll make sure that I won't hurt anyone. You know as much as I do how big that possibility is."

Dean stared down at her straight expression, the first warm feelings for her tickling his insides. He didn't just dislike the idea of ever having to strike her down, he loathed it. And he loathed the way Sam would look at him if he did. But he respected her for coming to him about this.

"Dean."

"I'd only do it if I absolutely had to."

"Thank you."

He nodded. "If it's, uh, any consolation . . . I really hope it doesn't come to that."

"So do I."

Her smile was small, but Dean was beginning to see why Sam seemed to like it so much.

"Y'know . . . you're alright. For a three-year-old." Dean was glad he made her smile a little wider.

"I know I am, thank you."

Dean folded his car keys against his palm, his eyes flickering around awkwardly. He cleared his throat, giving a small swallow. "Hey, listen . . . Sammy, he's . . ." He was already wishing he hadn't said anything. "He's probably waitin' on us."

Storm was very still apart from her wandering gaze that studied his face. "He confuses me."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "How so?"

"I don't know. I'm reluctant to leave any room he's in. I feel the desire to laugh at any jokes he makes even if they aren't funny, and I get these weird red splotches on my chest whenever we talk."

Dean was giving the biggest mental eye roll that his brain could possibly permit. _Jesuuuuus. Way too innocent for my tastes._

"Yeah. That's normal. Don't think too much on it."

But as they reentered the motel building, Dean was eying the back of her head, thinking, _Just once let this end smoothly. Just once. _He couldn't help wondering how long it would take his baby brother to forgive him if he was the one to bury Storm in the dirt. A foreboding feeling seemed to crawl up from the darkest center of his being, nesting in his stomach.

Sam had just finished packing up the rest of his things when they got back, his eyes switching between Dean and Storm, clearing his throat but not saying anything.

"So do you have any idea how to get this dove back?" asked Anna.

"Wilma," said Storm. The angel and Dean stared at her but Sam smiled to himself.

"_Wil_ma?" repeated Dean in two short confused and skeptical syllables. "You named your dove-grace _Wilma_?"

"What would you have named it?"

He looked stumped at the question. "Bob?"

"Regardless on its name," said Anna before Storm could answer, "how do you usually find it? I don't think it's a normal bird so it wouldn't have burned up in the fire."

"A mental connection of sorts."

"I figured. Okay. We'll go when you're ready."

Dean was eying Anna. "Are you gonna . . . zap us to wherever we need to be, or . . .?"

"After we get back."

"Gotcha."

"In the meantime, stay at the Lonely Star motel that's a little ways off from this town. Put up the usual sigils in case Uriel has an extra eye out."

"Shouldn't we come with you to get whatever you need to get?" Sam questioned.

"No. While we're out looking for the dove, I need you two to mix these herbs into a very fine powder." From her inner pocket, Anna retrieved three small bags of multicolored dried leaves. "We'll be back sooner than you think."

Dean took the herbs, opening a bag and taking a small whiff. The youngest was chewing on his bottom lip, gaze on Storm's face that had lost a lot of color within the past hour. He coughed out, "Storm, can I . . . can I catch quick word before you go?"

"Yes." She stared at him, waiting.

"Um . . . alone?"

"Oh." Her ears turned a little red but she nodded, following him out into the hallway. Sam shut the door tightly behind him, breathing out as his eyes flickered from feature to pale feature across her face.

"You don't have to do this."

She smiled in a exhausted sort of way. "Of course I do."

"I mean . . . we could keep looking, find a safer method."

"I think this _is _the safest method, also the only one. I feel that there's going to be a risk no matter what we do."

"I just want to make sure that you're one-hundred percent in this before diving into even more unknown possibilities."

"A hundred and twenty percent. I trust Anna."

Sam nodded, but not precisely in agreement. "Alright." He sighed. "I guess—I'll be seeing you when we're ready for this ritual thing, huh?"

She surveyed him, her weary smile returning in a smaller form. "Did I tell you that I finished my book?"

Rather taken aback, Sam said, "Book?"

"_The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde._"

"Oh." Sam narrowed his eyes uncertainly, not sure why she was bringing this up all of a sudden. "Uh. Was it good?"

"Have you ever read it?"

"Um . . ." Sam shrugged. "Maybe once. Back in high school."

"It was good. The contrast between Jekyll and Hyde, one being friendly and the other cruel, but both the same man, is what kept me really invested. It was a perfect balance of good and evil in one novel. But in the end, he stays as Hyde permanently, the evil side of his 'split personality'. I'm not sure what Robert Stevenson's intention was when he wrote that, but I took a more metaphorical meaning to it. Jekyll wanted to control both the good and evil side of humans, the result being he himself remained permanently evil. Ironic."

Sam raised his eyebrows. "Yeah. Um . . . "

"We should get back to Anna and Dean. 'Get this show on the road'." She gave him such a tight smile that her laugh lines turned white. Sam eyed her, wetting his lips.

"Alright. Look. This is a disposable cell phone." He pulled it from his back pocket and held it out for her. "Anything happens, any reason at all . . . I'm just a phone call away. I put Dean's and my number in it already."

Storm reached for the phone, but she folded her fingers over his entire hand, not looking at him. Sam saw words haunting her lips, her eyelashes fluttering anxiously. She squeezed before tenderly pulling the cell from his grasp, simply saying, "Thank you."

Two seconds later Sam found himself reaching for her wrist, keeping her from turning away. He hadn't meant to, he simply felt like there was still something he had to say, only he had no idea what. Possibly it had something to do with his fear that Storm would somehow be changed after this ritual, even if it succeeded. However selfish it sounded, he wasn't sure her memories were worth losing the person she was now.

"I can't say everything is going to be okay," she said quietly, hard eyes flickering across every feature on his face. "But I've contented myself with the risks I'm taking, and that is 'okay' enough for me. But I'm going to need you there with me, Sam."

Sam's heart gave a small twinge for unknown reasons. He looked at her, narrowing his eyes and clearing his throat, his lips giving a small twitch of an uncertain smile. "Storm . . . you don't have to ask." The tenderness in his tone brought forth a smile to Storm's mouth. He stood up straighter, releasing her wrist and exhaling heavily. "I just . . ." He raised his brows a bit as he thought, eventually giving a short shake of his head. They met eyes. " . . . want it to work out."

Storm felt she was missing something. " . . . So do I."

They stared at each other up until the door opened, Dean poking his head out, asking what they were doing, and then saying they had to get a move on. As they all started making their way outside again, Sam couldn't help but feel he had missed his chance at something back in that hallway.

.

For a night in the middle of fall, it wasn't very cold. There were only thin wisps of white cloud before the brothers' mouths as they made their way across the field beside the highway, the one Storm had fallen on. Both of them had heavy duffel bags hanging from their shoulders, neither of them speaking. It was windy, though; the breeze was singing through the branches of the nearby trees, but to Sam it sounded eerily like high pitched human whispers. There was a certain spot behind the white clouds where you could see the vague whitish blue glow of the moon, this being the only source of light for the claustrophobic darkness.

Anna and Storm were a little ahead of them, which was why Sam and Dean gave a small start when they heard Anna close by saying, "Just a little ways up here."

"Storm?" said Sam.

"I'm here. Dean?"

"Yep. Now that roll call's over, how much we gotta do to prep up for this ritual?" said Dean.

"Not much. We can start immediately. Do you have the herbs?"

"Not to make it sound like a drug deal, but yeah. Here."

Anxiety seemed to take physical form, as if it was something sitting on Sam's head and pushing him into the soft earth beneath him. His eyes tried to penetrate the darkness to locate Storm and he saw that she was standing a few feet before him, a little to the right. Her hair was the only reason he could see her, so he wasn't able to make out her expression at all.

"How're you feeling?" Sam asked.

"Fine," replied Dean indifferently.

"I meant—um. Storm."

"Oh. Right."

Storm's fingers were prickling with fear, her lips drained of all blood, and hot vomit stirred in the back of her throat. Under a half an hour, she could be facing death, insanity, immobility, or perseverance. The odds were against her, yet even though her bones felt at snapping point with dread, determination boiled at her insides.

She swallowed heavily, her saliva like hot Vaseline. "I could be a lot more afraid." She inhaled until her lungs expanded against her ribcage, holding her breath for a few long seconds before exhaling heavily. She felt a little better. "I'd rather get this over with soon, though."

"Agreed," said Anna. She addressed the brothers, "I hope you both understand that you're only here for moral support. You absolutely cannot, no matter what you see or hear, interrupt the ritual. It's _extremely _sensitive and I don't think either one of you want to be responsible for driving Storm insane."

"My question is . . . what's so bad that could happen that would make us wanna do anythin'?" Dean asked.

"I honestly don't know," said Anna, "but I just wanted to make that clear. Have I?"

Dean nodded but wasn't sure if angels had night vision so he said hesitantly, "Crystal."

"Sam?"

"I—yeah. I understand."

"Good."

Anna gave the boys the bizarre instructions of standing exactly twenty steps away and told Storm to situate herself in a comfortable sitting position on the ground. At this point Sam was rubbing his thumbs against his sweaty palms, absently clenching his knuckles as he tried to make out Storm's face.

Anna crouched before her, pulling her large bag onto her lap and reaching into it to retrieve the calm dove. She handed it to Storm who was glad to have something to do with her hands, stroking its soft feathers and watching Anna as best as she could.

She poured the contents of the crushed herbs into a metal bowl, which a moment later caught fire of apparently their own accord. Extending the bowl to Storm, she ordered, "Inhale."

Storm did so, breathing in heavily and trying not to choke. It smelled like sage mixed with turmeric and motherwort. It did nothing to lower the rise of vomit in her stomach, yet she continued to draw it in until Anna withdrew the bowl. Something in the smoke had made Storm very dizzy, her throat tight and hot, almost itchy.

"The procedure is very simple, but you're not going to like it," said Anna. She held up a small object, close enough to Storm's face that she could see it was a knife.

She cleared her throat. "I don't care if I have to spill some blood."

"That's not why you're not gonna like it."

Storm bit the corner of her chapped lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood.

"I just want to clarify that that dove isn't a real dove," Anna went on. "It's not even alive. It's pure energy, energy I'm convinced that ripped itself from you when you fell. Why it took form of a dove, no idea. The point is, it's apart of you, maybe the power part of you."

"Like a grace?"

"Exactly. So, theoretically speaking, if you were to absorb its power, you would recover what you lost when you fell from Heaven, hopefully all of your memories as well."

"Theoretically."

"Well we can't say we have a lot of cases like you so we can't be one-hundred percent sure. Also you're not an angel so we can't be positive it works in the exact same way. Hence the risk."

"Okay. How do I absorb its power?"

"That's—the part you're not gonna be keen on."

"Tell me."

"By draining it of its energy source. Its blood."

Storm's heart was pounding against her eardrums, the heat of them seeming to make Anna's voice seem a great distance away. She used the remaining air in her lungs to say quietly, "I need to drink the dove's blood?"

"Poor Wilma," said Dean under his breath. Sam stepped on his toe.

"It's not alive," Anna said firmly. "It's not a being. You won't be killing it. If it makes you sick, you can _not _throw up, whatever you do. Do whatever you have to do to keep it in."

Storm's grasp over the bird loosened, taking a beat to gather herself. "Alright." She breathed in again, and along with fresh air she was also inhaling courage. "I thi—I can do that." Yet she could feel the vomit rise a little higher in her throat.

Storm could feel Anna's hard stare. "Are you sure you can keep that promise?"

"Yes."

"Alright. So sit completely still until I tell you otherwise."

The wind whipped the girls' hair around their shoulders, a chilling silence following. The surface of Sam's tongue was like sandpaper, his eyes finally able to at least make out the figures of Storm and Anna. It was hard to hear exactly what they were saying over the strong breeze.

"Give me your hand," Anna instructed. Storm obeyed, keeping it steady as Anna took hold of her wrist, raising the blade of the short knife to the hollow of her palm. She reacted more inwardly than she did outwardly to the pain, which seemed to awaken her senses to some degree, making the night seem colder and sharper. Even her insides seemed chilled, a violent wave of ice injecting into her bone and muscle.

Anna started speaking in a language Storm didn't know but guessed to be Latin as she used her thumb to dip into the scarlet liquid. She pressed her finger hard against Storm's chest which felt like it was going shatter any given moment from the force of her heart. Anna drew one large circle in the center of her chest, the blood strangely hot against Storm's freezing skin.

Like a foreboding growl from a feral animal, thunder rumbled in the distance. It was like the world was telling them there was time to turn around now to avoid being bitten.

But Storm's will had never been so persistent.

Anna spread her blood on only a few more places; two even lines on her forehead and a single vertical one in the center of her chin. Storm tried to amuse herself in thinking she probably looked like she was ready to enter battle. She strangely felt a little braver at this thought, which was good because she was sure she knew what was coming next.

Anna ended her chant and extended her hand for Storm to give her the dove. It gave no struggle, only emitting a surprised "_Coo!" _when Anna drew her blade directly into the bird's heart. Storm's entire body gave a spasm, like she too had been pierced with a knife, but a moment later surprise drowned out her apprehension. The dove's blood wasn't red, but a substance white enough to break darkness. It poured thickly into the goblet that Anna held under its limp body, her expression fixed with concentration.

"You have to drink it it all at once, no breaths in between," said Anna sternly, pushing the metal goblet firmly into Storm's hands. She let only Anna's orders consume her mind, no thoughts of repulsion or how much she didn't want to do this.

In an instant, Storm's eyes started to sweep the field, in search of the brothers, but she couldn't find them and knew she had to obey Anna as soon as possible.

The cup was cold against her lips but the liquid a strange and unsettling lukewarm. The second it first started sliding down her throat she knew how difficult it was going to be not to throw up. It wasn't as though it was particularly foul. It didn't taste like anything, except for a sour aftertaste. Its thick texture made Storm feel like she was downing a bottle of cooking oil and it left a sort of greasy feeling on her lips. But the longer she consumed it, the warmer it seemed to become. She could feel it settle as a hot bubbling pool in her upset stomach.

Her gag reflexes starting kicking in, making her choke on the horrible stuff but still trying to force it down at the same time, making painful tears burn her eyes. Her body rejected the stuff completely, nausea swimming in her belly, her face bloodless, prickles of cold sweat arching along her forehead.

Finally, she pulled away when she was sure every last drop had been consumed.

"Storm—"

The goblet landed with a hard thud on the ground when Storm slapped a hand to her forehead, pretty sure she had just left an indent in her skull. But it felt as if her head had just been harpooned. A shrill and piercing, ice-cold burn making her brain throb to the point she thought her skull would crack. Bent over, she fisted a handful of grass, confused on what was up and what was down, the orbit of the earth suddenly picking up to a million miles per hour.

And still the worst part was the nausea, making her entire give a sickly throb that emitted a shower of cold sweat. She kept swallowing her water-like saliva, determined to keep her promise and keep the awful liquid in her system. But her entire body was writhing, losing all desire to hold its own weight. She vaguely felt her head hit the earth as her back arched, her senses blind to her surroundings. She tasted dry grass and dirt in her mouth.

Her vision was corrupted by snowy white veins, like she was looking out a broken window and her eyeballs were the shattered glass. It was like her lungs had shrunken to the size of peanuts, her mouth wide open in attempt to suck in the night air, but she was slowly being suffocated. Storm felt her blood turn electric, her body starting to seize uncontrollably.

Deaf and blind to the world, Storm no longer had any idea what was going on anymore. The white veins in her vision started to pulse in time with her rapid heartbeat, and with each throb it dominated what little she could already see.

Drowning in albescence, Storm was finally starting to make sense of something. The sound of a voice though she could not make out the words. Her consciousness swayed from reality, feeling oddly drunk. Voices, there were definitely voices but she couldn't tell if they were of Anna and the brothers, or someone else.

Her brain still pulsed, her body still fighting to regain control of her nerves and senses. And the odd part was was that it was working; the more she fought, the more thin this blanket of white in her vision became. But she knew that wasn't what she wanted; she wanted her memories back, and the only way to do that was to let the pain take her.

As if this thought was a command, gravity seemed to increase twenty times, the earth giving a magnetic pull to her body. Unconsciousness swallowed her, and she gave up on every nerve in her body, allowing fluorescence to suffocate her.

She blinked once and opened her eyes to new surroundings.

She was a little girl and that's all she knew, switching at disorienting pace from her point of view to bird's eye. She could see enough to know she was sitting on the edge of a small creek in the middle of a field, collecting different colored rocks into a bright yellow pail. She put in a few extra in case Anna wanted to start a collection too. Her hair was a mousy brown, and that was what struck Storm the most odd. Her knees were scraped, the blood just barely dry.

Something white was caught in her peripheral vision and looking up, she saw a dead white bird floating down the creek's gentle current. She watched until it drifted out of sight, and then stood up, wiping the mud from her butt and walking along the bank until across from it. She stepped into the ankle-deep creek, soaking her socks and pink Sketcher sneakers. She cupped the dove in her hands, lifting it from the water, looking at its dead black eyes that could have been staring at everything.

A shadow cast across her face, and in the sun's absence she already felt chilled. She looked up to see a man standing a little before her. Wavy brown hair, green apple eyes, tall and lanky, dressed in a grownup suit.

Memories of her mother telling her to never talk to strangers revisited her, that if anyone ever touched her she was to struggle and scream as loud as she could. But the lack of fear was significant to her, so she raised the bird and said, "It's dead."

The man's eyes flickered to the dove and then up to her face again. He was frowning in a distraught sort of way. "Does that make you sad?"

"It doesn't make me happy."

The man hesitated before taking gentle steps down to the bank in front of Storm. He cleared his throat and then crouched before her, one hand on his knee and the other vaguely indicating her to outstretch the bird. She did so, the droplets of water sticking to the dove's feathers catching sunlight, making it shimmer like some otherworldly glistening ornament.

The man extended two fingers and just barely grazed the top of the dove's beautiful head. Like a switch had been flipped, life sprung into the bird, flapping its wings against Storm's hands, tiny talons scratching her palms. Then it was off in the air, freedom its only path as it soared into the blue of the sky.

The image changed like a water color being splashed with liquid, the colors mixing an mingling until a new reality was formed. But in this flash of memory, the darkness was like a thick blindfold and all Storm could do was hear.

"How long?" This voice she didn't know well but was familiar.

"Twenty years." No idea.

"What are the odds of success?"

"Considering this has never been attempted before, we have no idea. The moment we start threading the humanity out of her, she might die instantaneously. She's our little experiment."

"Will it be painful?"

The low rumble of a chuckle that emitted from the second's throat brought a pang of realization in Storm's chest. It didn't matter what body he inhabited; there was only one person she knew that could emit the audible version of ice.

Uriel's voice was a little higher than usual, but still with equal tones of menace. "We're going to kill every human gene in her body, but with precision, discipline, which of course prolongs the process. If you ask me, it's doing her a favor." Within the following pause, the silence was so sharp it was like a fingernail grazing Storm's eardrums. "And you're sure you want to give her your blood?"

"Do you think it will not be sufficient enough?"

"That's not why it concerns me, Castiel. Doing so could create a bond you do not want, and this could potentially alter your way of thought. Say, if you had to choose between saving her and destiny . . . do you think I _want _to strike down my brother?"

"I do not fear that outcome."

"I do."

Another pause.

"I am ready," said Castiel.

The next sensation Storm could only describe as falling up. She enjoyed the strangeness of the feeling for awhile, fading up and and up into endless blackness until she was slammed hard on a metal surface.

"Scream, little birdy. Scream if it makes you feel any better."

Storm had already endured this memory. The feeling of her body being remolded under thick fingers, her nails being pulled from their cuticles, her skin being turned inside out and sewed to her bones. What was worse was the pain was so exquisite that it shattered her reason, so consuming that Storm forgot that she wasn't really there. She forgot her name, the dove, Anna, Sam and Dean, the names of the states, the taste of strawberries; all there was to focus on was her brain stem being snipped at, the feeling of needles in her pores, the blood in her throbbing veins replaced with lava.

Her sanity felt as delicate as china.

.

"Just drive, Dean! Drive!"

"Drive _where? _Hospital?"

"And how do you think we're going to explain that she has a stomach full of white dove blood!?"

"I don't fuckin' know! Just tell me where to go! Why can't you zap us there!?"

"I don't know," said Anna. She repositioned Storm's head on her lap which bounced slightly as they hit a bump in the road. She brushed her fingers under her bangs; her skin was still like flaming stone, but at least she was no longer seizing.

"Anna," said Sam, his voice hoarse. He too was in the backseat, wide eyes fixed on Storm's completely immobile features. "Her pulse is skyrocketing," _just like the night I found her, "_she could end up having a heart attack."

"Nobody's havin' a heart attack!" Dean snapped. "Anna, what the hell's goin' on with your angel mojo?"

"Storm—she—she's blocking it, I think. I don't know."

"How could she be doin' that?"

"I don't _know._"

Anna elevated Storm's head, pulling her hair from her face.

_Oh God, oh shit._

"Foaming at the mouth," she murmured. "Temperature is at about hundred and ten . . . hundred twenty . . . hundred forty . . ."

There was no color in Sam's cheeks and his blood could have been accelerated to miles per hour in his veins. "Storm! You need to wake up now. _Storm." _

"Sam, stop!" Anna snapped at him and he stared at her, his brows narrowed in confusion and anger. "For all we know this is what is supposed to happen. If you rip her from wherever she is now, it could mess her up."

When he touched her wrist, he withdrew as abruptly as if he had touched a scalding stovetop. His chest heaved and his head reeled. He couldn't help but compare this exact feeling and situation to the night he found her three years ago. Then, he had been just as panicked, was driving just as fast as Dean was now, and Storm had been just as still.

"First motel you see, Dean," Anna ordered.

Sam's eyes never left Storm's face, every second praying that an eyelid or finger might twitch, but as the moments pressed on, she only seemed to grow more still. Her face was heavily flushed, looking like she merely had a bad sunburn.

He swallowed, coughing on his own saliva. He felt like gnarly black roots had twisted and snared around all his internal organs, squeezing and ripping at them.

The squeak of tires pierced his ears as Dean made an abrupt turn into a motel parking lot. Sam could even feel the burn of Storm's skin when he shifted one arm under her knees, the other wrapped around her upper back, heaving her from the backseat of the car.

Apparently not wanting to waste time in purchasing a room, Anna gave the door furthest to the right a hard stare and it swung open. He placed Storm as gently as he could atop the closest bed, making sure her head had plenty of support from the pillow. The skin of his forearms was a bright pink just from contact whilst holding her.

"Can you tell what's happening?" Sam asked Anna. "I mean . . . can't you do anything?"

"I wouldn't want to risk interfering." Anna reached forward, using a bundle of toilet paper to wipe some white foam from the corner's of Storm's mouth.

"An' how do we know this is supposed to be happening?" Dean said, pacing the length of the room with his his hands on his waist.

"We really don't."

"So we're just gonna play the waitin' game?"

"There's nothing else we can do."

There was a brief pause. Dean swiped a hand down his face, rubbing the corner of his eye. "Okay, well, however long we're waitin' I don't want anymore feather butts droppin' in on us. Let's get workin' on those sigils. Sam?"

Sam swallowed, cleared his throat and forced stability into his tone. "Yeah."

"You alright?" Dean asked as he copied the symbol from the textbook in his hand, using his finger to spread the red paint across the window.

"Yeah. Y'know . . . just shaken."

Dean nodded vaguely, sensing the ambivalence in his brother's silence. "She's a tough cookie, Sammy."

Sam's hollow chuckle was nothing more than dry air escaping his lips. "I just can't help but wonder if there could have been a better way to do it. A safer way."

"She knew the risks of what she was gettin' into. Hell, at this point I would've done just about anythin' to get my memories back, 'specially if it meant gettin' back at those dickwad angels. Hopefully when she wakes up, she'll have some answers."

Sam appreciated Dean's use of the word 'when', but he still felt as if his stomach was rotting. In unison, the brothers glanced over at Storm. Anna was still seemingly doing checkups on her, running her finger along her pulse, holding the back of her hand to her forehead, pulling down her lower lip and checking the color.

"Least we know she's in good hands," said Dean. He was eying the redheaded angel with a weak smile. A moment later he cleared his throat and glanced away, wiping his fingers off with a dirty washcloth.

"Guys," said Anna a few minutes later, beckoning them over. "Look at this."

When Dean and Sam approached the bed, she lifted the lid of Storm's right eye. It was as white as her hair, no iris or pupil.

"Freaky," said Dean.

"It's not really white," said Anna. "Her eyes are moving so quickly up and down that it's an illusion. I can only imagine that means she must be seeing something in her unconscious state. Also, her temperature is going down and her heart rate is decreasing."

A warm trickle of hope leaked into Sam's chest. He pressed his lips together, nodding to no one in particular.

He prayed that that could only mean good news.

.

Wasn't two days enough?

The first night of Storm's unconsciousness, she had broken her ridiculous fever, but it had dropped just as much as it had risen. At this point, water would have frozen upon contact with her skin and she was shaking so violently that the blankets would not stay on her. For a while they had to have someone constantly monitor her and make sure she wouldn't freeze to death.

Sam felt like he was constantly running on thin ice. There was no knowing when she would wake up, if ever.

More so than either of the boys, even Sam, Anna rarely left Storm's side, mainly because she didn't need to sleep or eat. After some persistence, Sam managed to convince her to try and read Storm's mind but like her teleportation ability, her telepathy powers seemed drained.

By the end of the first day, Storm's lips began to move soundlessly, but a few hours later sounds were coming out. Not any words from any language, but mere noises, the ones someone would make during a prolonged and vivid nightmare.

It was in the middle of the night when Sam lay in the other bed, supposed to be sleeping but staring at Storm's silhouette beneath the blankets, hearing the quiet word, "Castiel."

Sam mainly ate in the room, but this morning Dean made him go out to the nearby diner, insisting that worrying himself to death wouldn't help him nor Storm. Sam had to admit that he agreed with him, but his potato salad tasted like paste.

"So . . . after you found her an' all, I would've expected you guys to keep in touch after somethin' like that happens," said Dean after taking an enormous swallow of cheeseburger. "But all this time we've been on the road you've barely mentioned her. Why's that?"

Sam drank his coffee to have something to do, clearing his throat. "She was hard to contact after she left, probably busy with the doctors. After a few weeks, when Jess died, when we were looking for Dad, killing demons left and right, I just . . ." He shrugged. "I don't know. I just never thought I'd see her again. Over the years I just kinda forgot."

Dean nodded slowly. "Huge coincidence that she was in the same hospital as Anna when we were on that case."

"Yeah. I guess."

The hours of the day ticked on, and with each passing one the air became heavier. Anna was still doing regular checkups on Storm's pulse and temperature, and both were relatively normal again. But she wasn't speaking anymore and she was back to being immobile. The anxiety Sam was feeling was like a rat scratching at the walls of his skull.

He sat on a rolling desk chair beside her bed, drinking his coffee and vaguely watching the television screen where a Spanish soap opera was playing. Anna was sitting on the other bed reading a book, and Dean was in the shower.

_Tik, tok, tik, tok._

On Sam's left knee lay the first picture she had ever drawn for him; it was her sitting on her hospital bed, with an exaggeratedly tale male sitting beside her, both labeled 'Storm' and 'Sam Winchester'. He had held onto it for so many years, and it had been folded and unfolded so many times that it was ripping at the seams. He had said he had forgotten about her, but didn't the fact that he kept this for so long prove otherwise?

_Tik, tok, tik, tok._

Sam was half of mind to shoot the clock on the wall, but judged against it. He briefly rested his face in his hands, massaging his brows with his thumbs. He breathed out heavily, withdrawing and leaning his chin on his intertwined fingers, studying Storm.

_I should have said something before we did this._

_What would you have even said? _A voice countered.

_Something. Anything. _

_She's going to wake up._

_I wish we could know for sure._

_She has to wake up._

_It would be so stupid to have gone through all of that for nothing._

_She's waking up._

For a moment, Sam thought he was dozing off, or the flutter of Storm's eyelids was a trick of the light. But reality crashed down upon him, making the room, his senses, the very air seem sharp. He almost fell out of his chair, climbing onto the bed beside her and staring down at her closed eyelids, willing them to pry open.

"Storm?"

From his peripheral vision, he saw Anna's head snap up. As Sam's throat constricted, the air in it seemed solid. He took hold of Storm's wrist, giving it a small squeeze in extra effort to bring her to consciousness.

"Can you hear me?" Sam persisted.

Those eyelashes were definitely fluttering, her eyes definitely moving. Her throat moved oddly as if she swallowed, her lips parting to mouth a soundless word. Sam was able to see a small shine of an eyeball as her lids opened an infinitesimal amount. There was no focus in them, nothing that indicated she knew what was going on. As they gingerly continued to open, Sam's heart could have been a cloud from how light it was.

Anna had moved to the other side of the bed, doing the quickest visual analogy of the white-haired girl.

"Storm?" said Anna. "Are you here with us?"

Storm's pupils were very big and very glossy, but Sam was relieved that they were focused on him. Her face was oddly straight, no line in her expression indicating her emotions. She stared straight up at Sam, and he could tell reality was revisiting her.

"I . . ."

Sam had never heard a word crack like that. It almost hurt his ears. He moved a little closer, under the impression that she was having trouble speaking, but she gave a single shake of her head.

"Sam." Her voice was groggy, hoarse, exhausted as her eyes. She opened her mouth, her lips having trouble unsticking. They barely moved as she said, "I know why they want me back."

"You should take a moment to settle down. You were out for two days. Are you alright?"

"I don't want to rest if I've been out for two days. Sam . . ." She pressed her hand into mattress, pushing herself up into a sitting position. Abruptly, she clenched her stomach as if about to puke, pressing her fingers into her eyes. Her complexion was a deep green.

"Don't move so quickly," Anna advised, but again, but Storm didn't seem to have heard her. She wiped some sweat from her brow, clearing her throat and continuing on as if nothing happened.

"I know why they want me back, Sam," she repeated. "I wasn't finished." There was a waver in the last word. "I escaped Heaven before they could finish me. I'm a dysfunctional weapon. I was their lab rat, their experiment for nineteen years." She breathed in and brought placidness back to her tone. "The night you found me, Sam, was the night I escaped. I wasn't supposed to. It wasn't Heaven's plan. They want me back to finish what they started."

The blanket flew off her and hit the opposite wall, the TV's screen turned to static, and Sam gave a start as the vanity mirror shattered, the reflecting pieces scattering across the carpet. Storm massaged her temples, inhaling sharply and exhaling only to meet Sam's eyes again.

It was maybe at that moment that for the first time ever, Sam saw the reason he named her Storm, because he could see one in her eyes. The flood of sorrow in her gaze, the flicker of anger, and the typhoon of hatred. All mingled together and it was like a downpour of Hell.

"If they wanted me to be a weapon, I'll be a weapon. The angels can go fuck themselves."


	12. Loony Bird

**Thank you for all your lovely reviews :]**

_-Twelve-_

Loony Bird

"So, rewind a bit. You're _not _an angel?" said Dean.

"I was born human."

"Where does the exploding, teleporting, furniture-flying techniques come from then?"

"I was taken to Heaven when I was really young, maybe five or six. Whatever experiment they performed on me landed me the way I am now."

"Do you know why?" asked Sam.

"What?" Storm frowned at him, massaging her temple. "I can't—they're so much louder up there than they were before."

"I expected that to happen," said Anna. "You'll learn how to block them out eventually."

After flickering a concerned glance between the pair of them, Sam repeated uncertainly, "Do you know why they took you to Heaven in the first place? Why they—experimented on you?"

"I'm not clear on why, or what exactly it is that they did. I just know that they needed to get rid of my humanity to make . . . again, I'm not sure exactly what. A weapon, of sorts. Maybe."

"Any idea who snatched you up to Heaven?" said Dean.

"The only person I saw was a man in a suit, but I think it was just another vessel Castiel had."

"Castiel put you up there?"

"I only had flashes of various memories. Most of it . . ." Storm's eyes vacated the others, readjusting her shoulders. "Some of it was reliving a hell-like dimension, but I don't know if it was actually Hell. It was just me and this one other person, but I could never see my surroundings. He was there to 'thread out my humanity', I think is what Uriel said."

The one who had called her 'little birdy'. Storm felt like she had cotton stuck in the back of her throat. She may have only been unconscious for two days, but in her sleep it might have been nineteen years of long torture. The needles were still in her pores, her bones still felt like they were going to crack under heat, and she had to keep checking to make sure she still had fingernails.

She looked out the window where the rain was gently tapping against. They had jumped from one random motel in California to another in New Mexico, staying in a place called Santa Fe.

Dean was measuring her carefully with a calculating stare, but when she looked at him he cleared his throat and looked away. "Question is, what the hell was their motive in takin' a human girl and de-humanizing her? Thought they all kinda assumed humans the weaker race, so why choose one of us to make a weapon? Why not an angel who's basically got the superpower area covered? What's a human girl got that the others don't?"

A long stretch of silence settled amongst the group, each preoccupied with their own line of thinking.

A nasty voice seeped up from the depths of Storm's brain, _Artificial. It's all artificial, you little lab rat. _

Storm beat down an oncoming headache by kneading her knuckles into her brow bone. She felt like a very old woman, her bones and muscles brittle and creaky, like if she moved too much they might snap. There was that terrible sensation of being nauseous but not able to throw up

She thought of that first memory, of seeing Castiel bring that dove back to life. Why? What did that even mean? Was that her first time ever meeting him, and just like Dean said, what was it about her simple young self that made that made the angels choose her? These thoughts were like a knife to her brain, and the pain evidently was written all over her face because everyone was staring at her.

"Storm, if you don't wanna talk about it, we'd understand," said Sam. "You deserve a breather."

Right now, Storm's worst enemy was her thoughts, spasming in her brain like hot poison. The very thought of being left alone with them was petrifying. She felt like she was still waking up, having trouble differentiating reality from the torture. She was praying these were just aftershocks of the ritual because sanity was starting to seem as easy to grasp as fog.

"I—"

"I shouldn't be staying in one area for long anyway," said Anna, but she was surveying Storm with concern. Her skin was starting to blend in with her hair, the circles under her eyes looking more like purple bruises. "Storm, I know you're tired of being asked this . . . but what is it that you're actually feeling? Emotionally, physically? Do you think you're going to be alright?"

"I just need to take a shower." It was the biggest lie Storm ever told, and she hated herself for her own coldness, knowing how abruptly she had just rejected Anna's concern. Especially all that Anna had done for her, risked to help her. "Anna, you were right. We knew each other. When we were children. I remember thinking about you in a memory of when I was little. It had nothing to do with meeting in Heaven."

To Storm, Anna represented that time she couldn't remember back when she was human, back before she had ever met Castiel or the other angels. There had been a time when she got up early, ate breakfast, kissed her mother on the cheek and went to school. She probably had other friends, learned in classrooms like other children, had normal brown hair. It was relieving to know she was normal at least at one point.

Anna gave her a warm smile. "It's funny. I'm starting to remember too. You must have lived in Ohio as a child."

This brought a sense of wonder to Storm, thinking of who else she might be able to find if she searched. But she pushed aside the idea for now and returned Anna's smile.

"Thank you. For everything that you've done for me. For going out of your way to find us and help."

The warmth of Anna's smile reached her eyes. "I only wish I could stick around longer, but I've got every angel in Heaven and every demon in Hell on the lookout for me, and the longer I hang around you guys, the more you're in danger."

Storm thought on this, wondering if she would care very much if she faced the angels again. She did care, though. She needed to see Castiel, set in some final answers. Although mentally weak and confused, she could feel her body throb with power. If the dove was the energy she had lost when she fell, now that she absorbed it her abilities must have been at their fullest. She felt them pulse within every cell that built up her body. But even if this was as terrifying as it was rapturing, it meant she finally had a way to fight the angels. Still, she wanted to wait until the hate and anger died down so she could think clearly.

Storm exhaled, her smile extending as she moved forward to pull Anna in a hug. This action evidently surprised the angel because she didn't react immediately, but an instant later she relaxed and hugged Storm back, giving her a light pat on the shoulder before withdrawing.

"Thank you," said Storm again.

Anna nodded. "Of course. I may or may not try and drop in occasionally just to see how you're doing." She turned to Sam and Dean, her eyes lingering on the eldest who gave her a tender smile.

"Nice seein' you, Anna," he said.

"Yeah. Sorry I couldn't have stayed longer."

"Kind of a shame, really."

"Thanks, Anna," said Sam.

"Stay out of trouble."

"Yeah, 'cause that's what we're best at," grinned Dean.

She gave the three a last look and finally, with the sound of flapping wings Anna disappeared within the time Storm blinked.

"Well," said Dean, slapping his hand on his knee as he rose from the bed, "that clock says three a.m, so I say we got 'bout six more hours 'till we should be on the road again. Sam, let's leave the lady to her shower."

Sam didn't seem to have heard him right away. He took his eyes from Storm, looking at Dean and frowning. "Wha—um, yeah. Storm, do you think you'll be okay for the night?"

"Yes."

This one short syllable didn't seem to reassure him, but he pressed his lips together and nodded.

"Maybe when you get some rest, you can tell us more of what you saw," said Dean.

"There wasn't much more to it. You two can go and get your sleep. I'll see you in the morning."

The brothers exchanged looks at the abrupt dismissal, but Dean just shrugged while Sam frowned at the floor. As they left the room, Sam hesitated halfway out the door, peeking his head back in as Storm approached him, her hand on the doorknob.

". . . You seem tense," he said.

"I am. I'm sorry."

"You don't—" He shifted, still in between the warmth of the room and the bitter cold air of outside. "Look . . . I don't know what you saw, but obviously what you told us isn't the full story, and that's okay. I just wanna make sure you know that I'm here if you wanna talk about it. And if you don't, that's fine. I just want to know how you're doing. Okay or not."

Storm leaned the side of her head against the door, managing to will the tired muscles in her face to form a smile for him. "You always know how to be there for me, Sam." A small silence fell between them, their eyes wandering each other's faces. "I saw and felt some things I didn't want to, but when I tell myself it was worth it, I feel better. Maybe it'd help even more to talk to someone about it. Tomorrow. I really would like that shower."

Sam gave a small swallow, nodding. "Just holler if you need anything."

"I might. I don't really," _feel like being alone, _"have a lot of energy, though, so I'm going to be turning in soon." She inhaled and exhaled quietly, closing her eyes briefly as a chilled breeze brushed against her face. _He wouldn't judge me for asking. _But, " . . . Goodnight, Sam."

Sam frowned a little at her, releasing the door and wetting his lips. "Yeah. Night."

Storm watched him as he walked away, her stomach sinking so low it seemed to want to pull her to the ground. She shut the door, walking up to the window and drawing the curtains shut. She turned on the radio beside her bed, flipping it on a random station and turning the volume nearly on max.

'_Imagine me and you, I do; I think about you day and night, it's only right, to think about the girl you love, and hold her tight; So happy together.'_

She stripped off her clothing, leaving them in careless piles behind her as she entered the bathroom, turning the shower all the way on hot. She waited until the steam was rising before getting in, watching her body turn pink in the scalding water. She couldn't feel it, and the lack of burn almost came as disappointment to her, maybe thinking that it could compensate for the pain of the flashing memories.

She wet her hair, smoothing it back along her scalp as she engulfed her face in the shower's stream.

'_I can't see me lovin' nobody but you, for all my life; When you're with me, baby the skies will be blue, for all my life.'_

"_Scream, little birdy."_

Storm's vision pulsed with the snowy-white veins, giving a spasm as she felt something pierce her stomach. A knife, right in her gut, her body swallowing up the silver of the weapon as her blood dripped onto her toes. She watched the crimson liquid swirl in blurry tangos as it went down the drain.

'_Me and you, and you and me; No matter how they toss the dice, it had to be; The only one for me is you, and you for me; So happy together.'_

The music seemed slower, sluggish, like it was taking a long time for it to travel from her ears to her brain, as though she had been drugged. Reality was so thin that it felt like the room around her was painted on a curtain that she could easily pull aside.

She blinked the water from her eyes, looking down to see her stomach clean of any wound or knife. No blood. She accidentally swallowed some of the water, settling a hot chlorine taste in her mouth. She wiped a hand down her face just as the radio started to static.

'_I can't see me lovin' nobody but you—__**fzzt—**__for all my li—__**fzzt**__'_

Her back hit the shower wall, eyes directed heavenward, fingers matted in her hair and pressing into her skull. Her brain felt as if it was being used as a pincushion, stabbed by violent flashes of those venomous memories. Her stomach turned upside down, her throat hot with rising vomit. Gingerly, she slid back down the wall, jerking the shower curtain aside so harshly that the rod became askew. She leaned forward over the toilet, waiting to to be sick, wanting to. She just wished _something _could be released from her body. She could feel her face go icy as all the blood drained from it, her pores prickly with cold sweat.

She waited on her hands and knees for over five minutes, that horrible nauseous feeling swimming about her insides but not acting. When she did throw up, there was barely anything in her stomach to be rid of. Still, she wretched and writhed, her knees turning numb from the porcelain floor, her lower back and rear completely inflamed from the shower's spray. She spluttered into the toilet bowl, her breasts sore from being pressed against the side of the tub.

She coughed violently, her throat stinging with the foul acidic taste of vomit. She closed her eyes to the sensation of her toes being chopped off, the bones being plucked out.

_What was it all for? Why did you choose **me**? What were you **doing **to me?_

She planted her hands on the tub wall, heaving herself to her feet and forcing her trembling legs to hold her body upright. She washed down the terrible taste in her mouth with the shower water, turning the temperature to an icy-cold. She fixed the shower curtain, about to pick up the shampoo bottle when she realized it was a _Dove _brand. She stared at it for several more seconds before proceeding to wash her hair.

_Something's not right. That ritual's fucked me up mentally._

_I've never even sworn before in my life!_

_Fuck! Fuck, shit, fuck!_

_Fucking hallucinating._

_Fucking angels._

_I can't fucking think straight._

_I'm going mad._

The shower turned off without her even touching the handles. She stepped out, wrapping a towel around herself and exiting the bathroom. 'Nobody's Child' by The Beatles was playing loudly and Storm stood in the middle of the room, listening to the melody for a few moments before bending over to pick up her clothing. She sank into the end of the mattress, holding her clothes in her lap as she took in the cheap décor of the room.

_'I'm nobody's child, I'm nobody's child; Just like the flowers, I'm growing wild; I got no mummy's kisses, I got no daddy's smile; Nobody wants me, I'm nobody's child.'_  
Storm gave the radio a fierce stare before it shut off abruptly, a heavy layer of delicate silence falling upon the room. She got to her feet, retrieved her bag from the table and pulled out the overlarge shirt Sam gave her. She put it on, stashing away her other clothes. As she picked up her jacket from the floor, her fingers smoothed over a small bulge in the pocket. She retrieved the disposable cell phone, flipping it open and staring at it blankly for a few seconds.

She pulled on some pajama pants before sitting on the end of the bed again, combing her wet hair from her face and fiddling with the little device until she got to the contact page. She stared at Sam's name until the screen went black. She snapped the phone shut, shifting restlessly, running her fingers through her wet hair as she tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling. After a solid minute she opened it again, but only played with the arrow keys

Finally, with her knees pressed nervously together and feet spread out, she raised the phone to her ear as it started to ring. He picked up on the third ring.

"_Storm?"_

She pressed her nail hard into her bottom lip. "Sam—"

"_Is everything okay?_"

She could hear Dean's voice in the background. She pressed her knuckles against her sore eyes, breathing in sharply through her nose. Honesty was always something she always valued strongly in relationships, at least in the few she had had. And she valued Sam so much, maybe more than anyone she had ever met. Even if she didn't want him worrying about her, maybe leaving him in doubt about her was even worse.

Storm cleared her throat, swallowing sour phlegm and forcing strength into her voice. "No."

"_What's wrong? I'll be there in a second._"

Her throat was still a tight sting with the horrible flavor of vomit. She stood up, retrieving one of the plastic cups and filling it in the bathroom sink. She drank deeply, barely meeting the eyes of her reflection before Sam was knocking at the door. When she opened it, she was relieved to see that Dean hadn't accompanied him. The ends of his hair were a little curly from the rain outside and his eyes had swiveled everywhere around the room before landing on Storm. He wasn't wearing shoes and his toes were red from the cold.

"What happened?" he asked as she closed the door behind him.

Storm tried to clear her mind, carefully thinking the most sincere way to word her feelings. "I'd honestly rather drink another dove's blood than spend tonight alone. I keep seeing and feeling things from the memories, and I think my thoughts are driving me insane. I don't think I can talk about it but I'd really appreciate it if you could stay with me here for the night."

Sam looked entirely taken aback, like he just had a rug tugged from underneath his feet. His eyes narrowed a bit, lips mouthing unsaid questions, but then his expression slowly softened as he stared at her. He cleared his throat quietly, eying her skin that was still bright baby pink from the hot shower. He looked into her eyes.

"I . . . I mean . . . yeah. Yeah, of course."

"Thank you. I know this request might seem strange, especially coming from nowhere—"

"No," Sam interrupted. "No, I get it. You really don't have to explain yourself. What happened kinda did a number on all of us, you especially."

Storm flicked her tongue at the roof of her mouth, heart fluttering.

Sam desperately wanted to ask that broken record question 'Are you sure you're okay?', but he knew that Storm wasn't sure about anything, least of all if she was okay. He used the substitute question, "Do you, uh, need anything?"

"Maybe some sleep. I'm determined to do something tomorrow, just to progress." She paused before adding, "I appreciate you doing this."

"Hey." He placed a hand on her shoulder, thumb brushing along the bone. He made sure she was looking him in the eyes before saying, "I really can't imagine how overwhelmed you must feel. And you need to stop feeling bad about feeling bad. Just," his lips twitched in an awkward smile, giving a slight shrug, "y'know. Feel what you gotta feel."

Storm's lashes fluttered, at first looking strangely confused. He watched her lips part, tongue running along her front teeth as her eyes glazed over with deep thought. They focused on his, her expression softening as a tired smile lifted her features. She gave a single slow head nod.

"Thank y—I, uh, have to use the bathroom really quick," she said, still wearing a tiny smile.

He glanced at his own hand still on her shoulder, gently removing it finger by finger and clearing his throat. As Storm entered the bathroom, he glanced around, gaze locating the chair by the desk. He made his way toward it, rubbing the sting of exhaustion in his eyes as he slumped into it.

A minute later Storm exited the bathroom, her gaze darting to Sam and looking positively baffled at the sight of him sitting there. "You're not sleeping in the chair! Get in the bed."

Sam straightened his spine against the back of the seat, smiling with a weak laugh and glancing down at his twiddling thumbs. He shrugged. "It's not really a big—"

"Sam, stop. I'd love to be close to you tonight and that chair doesn't look nearly big enough for the pair of us. Bed is much more comfortable and less likely to break."

Sam had to mull over these words for a second; he got a little lost after 'I'd love to be close to you tonight'. He scratched the back of his neck, shying eye-contact with her as he got to his feet again. He sat gingerly on the end of the bed, hands on his knees, giving a weak sniff, hoping to God he didn't have foot odor.

He suddenly wondered if he should tell Dean that he wouldn't be returning to the room, but he realized that he really wouldn't be able to stand the look on his face if he told him that he was spending the night with Storm. He knew where he was and Sam certainly wasn't going to put up with a word of any of his snarky remarks, though he probably wouldn't be very fortunate in the morning.

Sam had to admit it was a little awkward when they positioned themselves on either side of the bed, mainly because he was suddenly obsessed with not appearing as a creep or intrusive. He already felt weird about catching a glimpse of her changing the other day and felt the need to apologize, but the idea of ever admitting that seemed much worse than his small guilt.

However, if Storm found the situation at all strange, she didn't show it. She sat on the side of the mattress with her back to him, combing her drying hair behind her shoulders. He stopped for a moment to watch her part and braid it, her fingers moving with patience and ease. The braid rested in between her shoulder blades, looking strangely delicate but at the same time, strong. He looked abruptly away when she turned back to him, straightening the front of her shirt and seating herself atop the covers.

Sam didn't have much preference or knowledge when it came to girls' hairstyles, but he thought this one on her made her cheekbones stand out, her heart-shaped face more defined.

"I said I didn't want to talk about the memories, but we can still talk," she said, gently massaging her knee. "Do you always sleep in jeans?"

"Oh. Uh. Not always. Not usually."

"You could go back to your room and get something more comfortable?"

He thought of Dean. "No, I think I'll be alright."

"Do you think I have the power to manifest pajamas? With the snap of my fingers you could be wearing Scooby-Doo bottoms and a Spongebob T-shirt."

"And all along the angels have been wasting their abilities on the impending apocalypse," chortled Sam, glad for a spark of humor to break the tension.

"I for one think Uri and Cas would be far less intimidating with Scooby-Doo pajama pants and Spongebob shirt. I don't think it would be a wasteful power."

Sam was genuinely unable to keep in a loud snort of laughter at the image of Castiel with such an attire, wearing his usual serious frown.

Storm lowered herself onto the mattress, pulling the covers over her and resting her head on the pillow. She drew the blanket up to her eyes, staring up at him. It somehow looked very cute.

Adorable as she may be, her next tone of voice was serious. She shifted the blanket under her chin, still blinking her big eyes up at him. "Before we went our separate ways back at that hospital, one of the last things I ever told you was to never change, because I liked who you are. It was such a naïve thing to say, wasn't it? People are always changing. I've changed dramatically over the past three years, and I know you have too. But often when I look at you, Sam Winchester, I still see the same person who bought me that bird book, who played Uno with me every day. I can't tell you how happy that makes me."

Sam felt unexpectedly sad at this. Looking at Storm's life, of what little there had been, from where it started on that road she had always had a child's innocence. If she had been taken to Heaven as a young girl and never got the chance to grow up, he now realized why that may be. There was no doubt that due to recent events, she was losing that innocence. In fact, there was no way she could afford to keep it if she was to survive the angels. Even if that may be true, he had the silent and slightly selfish wish that Storm had had three years ago; 'Please don't change.'

"Storm . . ." He shook his head with another awkward, short laugh. He shifted closer in what he hoped was a nonchalant way, his hand twitching to reach out to her. At first, he repressed the impulse, but he truly wanted to comfort her so he succumbed to the desire and rested his hand lightly on her knee.

She looked curious as to what he had to say. Sam was curious too because he had no idea how he was going to word his thoughts. "Just—I know you've only had three years here, so you've barely had any time to get used to how the world works. But the way you face up to the angels—" He licked his lips, once more giving a tight, apologetic smile. "You just seem different when it comes to them. In a good way. Strong. Not like you would expect a girl who—thought a CAT scan was putting a cat on someone's face."

Storm unconsciously folded her knees, making Sam's hand slide a little up her thigh. He swallowed, lightening the weight of his fingers. Her eyes were unfocused but fixed on the space of the room, her expression blank.

"I don't know about 'strong'," she said finally. "Angry is a better word. I guess, just like strength, it can still be fuel for fighting against the angels. I just need to wait until I can think clearly."

She glanced at him, then down at his hand which he gingerly withdrew, clearing his throat again.

"You just have an impressive view on things."

She smiled. A sad, weary vision but it was enough for Sam to return the gesture. "Honestly, Sam, do you ever stop with the gallantry?"

He shrugged. "Just being honest."

"Don't get me wrong. It's not unwelcome. Are you tired?" she added as he tried and failed to suppress a yawn.

"A little. But if you wanna keep talking, we can."

"No, that's okay. It's late."

So Sam situated himself comfortably under the covers, wishing the bed was just a little smaller so he could have an excuse to be closer. The light turned off without either of them touching it, which caused Sam to frown up at the ceiling.

"Cool," said Storm. "I just wanted to see if I could do that."

Sam laughed, licking his lips as he shifted an arm behind his head and stared into the darkness of the room. For about ten seconds, he listened her breathing. For awhile there was nothing but the sound of the rain that was picking up, hammering down on the roof along with a distant rumble of thunder.

" . . . D'you mind if I ask just _one _thing?" said Sam after about a minute, because he was sure that her eyes were wide open, too.

"Okay."

"Pushing aside all of the Heaven and angel crap . . . you mentioned you saw yourself as a kid . . . did you ever see your family?"

Storm's arm brushed his as she shifted onto her side, facing him, propped up on her elbow. Sam's eyes were adjusted to the darkness well enough to see the curve of her smile, her gaze fixed on his face.

"Nothing vivid," she said very quietly, but still that smile remained. She moistened her lips, looking back into Sam's eyes, her toe nudging his ankle. "No faces, no smells, voices, or names . . . the only thing I can remember is a woman in s blue denim dress, placing a bowl of something in front of a toddler in a high chair. I think he had a rattle . . . pretty sure he was a 'he'."

"A little brother?" Sam suggested.

"Maybe. It's so simple . . . really nothing to it . . . but I've been rerunning it in my head since I woke up, and I can't stop smiling." Storm eased the side of her head back onto the pillow. She closed her eyes briefly, blistering tears prickling at her closed lids. _I don't have any idea who they are, but I miss them so much._

"Storm?" said Sam, who had noticed the thickness in her voice.

She slowly opened her eyes. "I'm here."

"I mean it's a long shot . . . but Anna mentioned she grew up in Ohio, and if you two knew each other when you were younger . . ." Sam felt wary about suggesting something so big, just because he feared getting her hopes up. There was no telling what the angels would have done with her family once they took her to Heaven.

"I was thinking that too. It's _all_ I can think about, but . . . it's not our main focus right now. In the future, I would potentially like to look into it. I mean, I don't have any way of finding them." _Unless I ask Castiel._

"Maybe if we even got a name. You didn't catch a name, did you?"

"Not at all." As her eyelids gave a lazy droop, Storm looked to see it was nearly four in the morning. She yawned, barely consciousness as she said, "Thank you for staying with me. I don't think I could have taken this night by myself."

Sam hesitated only briefly before saying, "I was actually gonna suggest the same thing, but I wasn't sure if you wanted to be alone."

"You were?" Another yawn cloaked her voice, but he could still detect her mild surprise.

Sam smiled, then wasn't sure if she could see him so he said, "Yeah. Seemed like you could use the company."

Storm was touched. She hesitated a moment before shifting under the blankets, rolling onto her side again so she was right beside him in fetal position. She lowered her face just close enough that her nose brushed his sleeve, and allowed her to be drunk with his scent; some worn off masculine cologne along with natural grime.

Sam lay there with intertwined fingers resting on his stomach above the covers, slightly wide eyes planted on the ceiling. They swiveled uncertainly in their sockets in effort to keep her in view without moving his head. It wasn't exactly cuddling, but definitely too close to be considered friendly. He was more than okay with this. His nerves felt strangely tickled at the closeness of her body.

As he looked at her, he was faced with a similar conflict to the one he had with the 'hand holding' dilemma. But it felt as though Storm's action in moving closer gave him permission to follow her example. And also; why the hell not? His fingers twitched with a last flare of uncertainty before he raised his left arm to drape around her, gently squeezing her arm.

Little actions followed these ones, now that both of them displayed their comfort around each other. Somewhere within the next few minutes, the side of Storm's head had found his shoulder, and their fingers met across his stomach, not intertwined, but making lazy brushes across each other's hands.

Sam's eyes were closed the whole time, a smile on his mouth refusing to be beat down. The weight of Storm's head on his shoulder eventually became heavier, and her fingers ceased movement with his as unconsciousness finally took her. Sam followed not far behind, his lullaby her soft breaths turning slow and even, mingling in with the sound of the tapping rain and thunder.

.

Sam didn't need to be a psychic to predict the next morning's conversation with his brother.

"She must've said somethin' pretty interestin' on the phone to keep you over there for six hours." Dean's smirk was just as Sam had pictured it to be, and just as annoying.

He breathed out, carelessly throwing his toothbrush into his bag and muttering, "It wasn't what you're thinking, Dean."

"I know exactly what it was, you sly dog, you. C'mon, gimme details. I mean . . . if her hair's white, what's it like down—"

"Dean." Sam stood up straight, his lips a hard line out of irritation. "You really think I would try and do that hours after what happened?"

"Sure. She needed a shoulder to cry on and you fitted the job just fine. Nothin' wrong with a little comfort sex, Sammy."

"I wasn't—" Sam curled his fingers against his palms, adjusting his jaw from side to side. He shrugged, shaking his head. "We didn't do anything."

Dean narrowed his eyes, giving an uncertain nod. He didn't snort, but he made a noise close to it. "So what've you guys been doin' past few hours?"

"Sleeping." This time Dean's eyebrows shot upward. "Yeah, she was just rattled."

Dean snickered, zipping up his duffel bag. "Yeah, alright. Very noble of you. Did you also braid each other's hair, watch _Mean Girls, _get into pillow fights, and gush over Brad Pitt?"

"No, Johnny Depp. And it was _Clueless._"

"Guess it's my own fault for putting that image in my head," said Dean absently, eying Sam's hair as if imagining the different ways to braid it. "Anyhow. Since we're so determined to get back to the chippity choppity lifestyle," Dean lightly slammed a newspaper clipping on the table, "Stratton, Nebraska. Farm town. A man gets hacked to death in a locked room inside a locked house. No signs of forced entry."

"Sounds like a ghost."

"Yeah, it does. How do you wanna go about Storm taggin' with us? I mean, sure she's got the 'smite me' covered, but I don't really wanna have worry about her gettin' hurt if she can't summon the almighty at the right time. Gotta teach that girl how to shoot, or at least throw a punch."

"I can wait at the motel until I become a more certified Hunter," said Storm from the doorway, making both of the brothers look up, and then glance at each other in mutual wonder if she had heard their previous conversation.

"I don't know," said Sam. "You heard Anna when she said about you personally riling up Uriel. He's desperate to get his paws on you. I dunno if it'd be safe for you to hang around too long by yourself."

"Oh, an' of course you'd offer," Dean mumbled, ignoring Sam's bitch-face.

"I can entertain myself by watching _Clueless _or _Mean Girls_."

Dean's face twisted into a hand-in-the-cookie-jar expression.

"I'll put up all the right sigils, keep the place off the angels' radar," she went on, giving the pair a small smile. "I'm not helpless, especially since that ritual. I also want to experiment more with whatever happened. See if I can bend spoons, contact Elvis Presley in the beyond."

"Maybe zap us to Nebraska? Would save us some gas," said Dean.

"I would be worried about teleporting two people, plus an entire car, since I'm sure you don't want to leave her behind. Or leave a scratch."

"Right. Driving." He indicated the door. "Ladies first."

.

At the motel in Stratton, the cheap wallpaper was of floral lilac opposed to the Kokopelli's that had been in Santa Fe. The room smelled like artificial lemon cleaning supplies and there were only fifty-two channels on the TV.

Dean and Sam took their time getting ready and Storm watched them curiously as they polished and reloaded their weapons. Both of them noticed when her eyes briefly glazed over, her fingers running over her stomach as if expecting something to be there. When Sam asked if everything was alright, she claimed it must have been something she ate. They both helped her with the sigils on the windows and Dean gave her a very brief lesson on how to lock and load a gun in case of an emergency, leaving her with a .38, even though she insisted that it would have no affect on angels.

Before they left for their investigation, they told her they would be back soon unless they got an immediate lead on the perpetrator. There were a few 'are you sure you're cool with being alone's', especially from Sam who had noticed she had been extremely out of it and slightly distant. He wanted to say something, but 'Hey, thanks for the great cuddle last night' didn't seem suitable. Still, he knew he was going to be thinking of conversation-starters for the majority of the case.

By the time they finally left, it was a little after five. Storm took a bath and started her new book, _The Great Gatsby, _and drank Dr. Pepper. Keeping down the hot and poisonous memories proved to be the same exercise of drowning out the talk of angels, but her headache felt like it was splitting her skull.

When she dressed into her daily attire again, she drew in her sketchbook with _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind _on as background noise. It was sunset when she finally looked up, the sun a golden orb just perched on the line of horizon. She closed her book on the half-finished drawing of the Impala.

She stood up, shrugging on her black leather jacket and tying up her sneakers.

She kept her hair down to protect her neck from the cold night air, but since the ritual, temperature had very little affect on her. Even her eyes seemed to penetrate darkness better, though because the moon was hidden behind snow clouds, there was very little illumination. Storm had the disposable cell phone safely tucked in her pants pocket in case Sam and Dean returned before she did, but she hoped to avoid that.

She walked on the side of the road close to ten minutes, kicking a pebble along her trail with hands deep in her jacket pockets, breath a thin wisp of white before her mouth. She stopped outside of a barbed wire fence, eyes settling on the distant silhouette of a barn, but no visible house. Her gaze scoured the land; plenty of field space, but no sign of any animals.

She climbed through the fence, taking a moment to unhinge her jeans from the rusty wires. Making her way across the field which was slightly narrowed, she took several moments to appreciate the clearing sky. Maybe now fifty feet from the road, she stopped several yards shy of an apple tree, turning to take in all of her surroundings. A thin wall of forest stood to her left, maybe a little more than a hundred yards away.

She curled her toes against the soles of her sneakers, taking a few more moments to content herself with the environment, inhaling slowly from her nose.

"Castiel."

His name escaped as fog before Storm's lips, her eyes sweeping the indigo sky where stars peppered from one horizon to the other. The following breeze kissed her face, ruffling her hair against her shoulders, until suddenly it died. It died along with the chirping of crickets, the calls of wildlife, once more like the audience of a gladiator stadium silencing for the kill. There was a flutter of wings and Storm looked up to see a raven taking flight from a distant pine tree, a mere silhouette against the starry background.

She turned again, her eyes anchoring on a blue pair that seemed to shine through the darkness. He was standing a little to the left of the apple tree, expression indecipherable as he stared at her. Storm was surprised at how calm her heart was, but her chest did seem several sizes too small for her body.

"Is Uriel with you?" she asked.

Castiel's eyes fell upon the rotten apples that lay at his feet, nudging one with the toe of his shoe. He looked her straight in the eye as he said, "No."

"Does he know you're here?"

"No."

"Are you supposed to be here?"

His eyes squinted a little. "No."

"Do you know why I called you?"

His gaze fixated on her, as if measuring each and every hair on her head. He abruptly glanced away, looking briefly up at the stars.

Storm remained stationary, though fought the impulse to take a step closer. "That day at the motel—you let Sam and me get away. So I can't imagine that preventing this from happening meant very much to you."

"My judgement was clouded. I shouldn't have done that."

"Why was your judgement clouded, Castiel?"

His eyes shied contact with hers.

"You know what happened with the dove, what I did and where I am now. I called you here because I need you to fill in the blanks of the snippets of memory I saw."

His gaze hit hers with such a fierce stare that Storm was under the impression he was trying to push her down with it. "I'm already breaking every rule by being here now, by not trying to bring you back."

"Why aren'tyou?"

He stepped forward, now close enough that his shadow brushed her face. He paused two feet away, immobile, the moon behind him darkening his features, though his eyes still pierced through blackness to lock with hers.

"How can you be certain that I will not?"

"I'm not." Saying it out loud made her realize how uncertain she really was. As she swallowed, her saliva practically refused to slide down her parched throat. "But I saw enough and heard enough to know that you'll at least hesitate. I also know you know I have my power back."

"I hope you understand how much of a fool you are to do that ritual."

"No, I don't, because you won't tellme _any_thing. Why did you choose me? Why was _I _Heaven's experiment? What did you turn me into?"

Castiel didn't say anything at all as he continued to stare at her, every line in his eyes shadowing out his previous anger.

"If you came here against orders and knew what I was going to ask, I can only imagine your intention was to give me some answers. I already am what I am, I already got back my power, and if you ever had a smidgen of care for me you would tell me."

The angel inhaled and exhaled very quietly, his sad eyes studying her. She was searching every line on his face for a sign of submission, her pulse pounding in her ears.

"Don't you ever doubt your orders? Wouldn't an angel know better than to take a little girl from her family to torture her for almost twenty years?" Storm felt like the anger was going to tear apart her heart. "If you're going to take me to Heaven, I want you to do it now. Otherwise stop playing with my head. This has to _end_."

The way Storm said the final word seemed to make the earth tremble beneath them, but it was so abrupt that it was enough to completely overlook.

Storm was just wondering if she had the power to strike a lightning bolt on his stupid face when he spoke in his hoarse voice. Narrowed eyes on the ground, voice an octave above a whisper, lips barely opening to form the words, "You were being worked on for nineteen years. Somewhere in the last few, you discovered free will. Escaped before you could be finished. " He raised his head, and something almost like pity was brewing in the blue of his eyes. "All of that power we had been infusing into you for years had been ripped from you during your fall. It was the shock of it that took your memories from you."

"Why did it take you so long to find me?"

"We had no idea what dimension you fell into. You make yourself, and everyone around you untraceable, unless you call me like you just did."

"You 'worked' on me." The word made Storm's throat tight. "Was that the torture?"

The angel and the unknown creature stared back at each other, five feet apart, the chilling wind rasping through the trees' brittle leaves. It was impossible for Storm to gather what he was thinking; those narrowed blue eyes only told her so much.

"Every human molecule in your body had to be obliterated, and it had to be done carefully and slowly enough so as to keep you alive."

"Why destroy my humanity?"

"To make room for another species."

Storm's stomach hollowed out, her blood thinner than air. "Angel?"

"One of them."

"One . . .? You—" Storm got a very distinct image of a Frankenstein type creature, sewn together by different pieces of man. "Was that why you gave me your blood? You were—_one _of the species injected into me?"

"It had to be someone's blood. I thought I'd be able to push aside the after effects of the transfusion. As it turns out . . ." His gaze leveled with hers again. " . . . me talking to you here now proves that I had been mistaken. Simply telling you any of this could lead to some very unfortunate consequences."

Storm wondered if he was trying to make her feel grateful for his sacrifice, but after a moment she didn't think so. Whatever bond Uriel had mentioned in her flash of memories, it was possible to use it to her advantage, to bring Castiel onto their side.

"Yet I am still on the bridge of whether or not you deserve this risk," he added, seeming to intentionally darken her former thought. He moved forward at a startling pace, but whatever slight fear Storm may have had for him, she would not show it by flinching. Though her throat tightened when he stood with less than a foot between them. "What happened after the ritual?"

Storm's eyebrows furrowed as she stared at him, her lips tingling from lack of blood. His head tilted a little to the side, his own brows coming together.

"I assume you're still having flashbacks, having a hard time differentiating reality from the memories, hallucinating." His expression did not soften under Storm's cold stare. "I am sorry, Storm, and you can take that as genuinely as you please. We tried to stop you before you did this. You escaped before you could be finished, so your body is not fit for handling the power you absorbed. It will eventually drive you to madness."

All at once, Storm's organs felt like they had turned to lead, the air in her lungs like sand. Electricity prickled at her brain, her posture stiff and bones trembling underneath her muscle. "And—what are the angels' plans for me now?"

Storm swore there must have been literal electricity in his eyes, because darkness didn't seem to have any affect on them. "Right now Project Athedas is considered a complete failure. I can assure you that they cannot find a way to use you, they will destroy you."

Storm felt this should have had more of an impact on her, but numbness was infecting her nerves. What else had she had been expecting from Heaven? Her eyes fell to a rotten apple by her foot, breathing in the cool night air before looking back up at the angel. "Why did you choose me? Or had it been planned out since the beginning?"

"No. When you sat by the river bank, I was told to look for a sign that would indicate if you were to be chosen or not. If you gave none, I was to leave you."

Castiel's expression confirmed Storm's thoughts. "The dove?"

"You picked it from the water."

"_That's _why you took me to Heaven?"

Castiel glanced to his right as if he expected someone to be there, frowned, then looked back at her. "Yes."

"Any child would have done that."

"Perhaps you're right, because clearly we wouldn't be where we are now if I had spent longer searching for a more suitable person." It was as if he was trying to remain angry with her, but ended up only being angry with himself at the fact that he couldn't.

"Probably." Storm stared up at the starlit sky. Her skin felt so artificial; everything about her did, like she was a doll that had been put together piece by piece at a factory. She knew she had been waiting for this moment, to finally get some answers after three years of starved curiosity and confusion. But she felt so indifferent, like everything Castiel was telling her was of no real concern, old news.

But there was one thing that she truly cared about. "Where's my family?"

"They have no memory of you, Storm, and I don't advise you drag them into this. They're safe."

Above all else, this was what made her feel closer to the breaking point. "Not even a name? My real name?" For some reason, Storm felt as if she had just insulted Sam. She suddenly wasn't sure if she even wanted to know. And in any case, Castiel only continued to gaze at her. "So I'm going to go insane because we did that ritual?"

"You're a pistol loaded with a rocket. Your body isn't suitable enough to handle the power, and it will eventually eat at your brain. Especially the more you use it. But—it's just a matter of time."

"And there's no way to reverse it so I can become human again?"

His lips were thin as he spoke. "No. But I do not know if it is possible to finish the process."

"To become this weapon?"

"You would need to return to Heaven."

"No."

He didn't look like he expected any other response, but Storm knew if he really wanted to, he could try and force her. "Can you promise the others around you, Dean and Sam, that you will not harm them? That you won't slip?"

It was as if they had suddenly taken different roles, like that memory she saw at the train station of when she was a child with Castiel. She felt like one as she stared at him, and that he was an adult or father that was simply explaining why she couldn't have sugar before bed.

"I'm going to find a way to reverse it," she said quietly, again like a stubborn child who insisted on only one cookie. "The only use of a weapon is to destroy things, and I'm not giving Heaven that power. I'll find something." She heard the passion in her voice.

He only measured her with those too blue eyes, neither doubt nor faith flickering through them. Uncertainty. Concern. And almost something like pride; it showed in the very vaguest twitch the left corner of his lips made. It was reassuring to Storm to see that he was capable of something as gentle and kind as a smile.

Without so much as blinking to break their gaze, his hand shot forward to grip her hip, and Storm clenched his forearm, not sure of his intention until the scar started to burn under his fingers. "This was burned into you so you could be easily tracked. The loss of your powers made it useless. Now that you have them back, unless the mark is destroyed they will soon realize they are able to locate you."

Storm's lip curled back in pain at the feeling of an ice-hot branding iron slicing into her flesh and muscle. She backed up a few paces away from Castiel, lifting up her shirt to see her anchor-shaped scar . . . it looked burned off. Blistered, almost like a horrible sunburn that had began to peel, and quite ugly. Though it was freezing at touch, as though a large block of ice had just been removed from her skin.

She looked back at him, almost expecting him to be gone, but his gaze awaited hers. Storm knew everything he was doing was going against his better judgement, against orders, so it made her reconsider her faith in this 'bond'. She certainly had had enough to come out here and meet him, but it had been a long shot.

"Thank you." Storm (ironically) prayed that she wouldn't regret those words, or this meeting.

Castiel ghosted two fingers over her temple, his eyes softening to their first shade of tenderness as he stared at her. He said quietly but very clearly, "Lily," before his fingers gently came in contact with her and her last sight was his solemn expression before she was standing in the motel parking lot, quite alone.

* * *

**I hope you have enjoyed this chapter. I always appreciate those who drop a comment in the review section, but I appreciate all of you, whether you review or not. **

**Thank you for reading!**


	13. Hourglass

**When you're writing multiple stories, coffee is your evil best friend and sleep becomes that friend you wish you saw more of but never get the chance.**

**I hope you enjoy!**

_-Thirteen-_

Hourglass

Strong jawline . . .

Lopsided, slightly shy smile . . .

Hazel eyes, brownish gold surrounding the pupil, flecks of teal following it. Almost blue when hit with the right light . . .

Storm blew away the eraser sheddings, her elbows sliding across the mattress so that her rear became slightly elevated. Her face was maybe two inches from the sketch pad, hair alit with static from the cream colored sheet thrown over her. She worked on the nose, the tiny beauty mark beside it, eyes narrowed in deep concentration.

_Maybe the dove gave me some extra art skills, too. This doesn't look that bad._

She took a moment to consider her work, chin resting on her folded arms, butt still exposed to the world. She reached for her eraser, the covers emitting small flickers of electricity. Touching up her work, she reached from underneath the sheet, patting her fingers blindly around for her mug of tea on the floor. She sipped it, accidentally spilling a few drops on the bedding.

Placing the mug back down she absently scratched her hip where the mark was still scabby and cold. Last night it had burned so icily that it kept her up a good few hours.

_Lily._

It was her name. Two syllables and it was an anchor to her forgotten life, one rock she clung to in the center of the ocean amidst a lightning storm. _Proof. _It was proof she had lived normally before any of this. This very fact seemed to keep the stabbing memories at bay, the angels' voices at a minimum. When she added the relaxing process of drawing on top of it, both were practically nonexistent. Though her headache remained.

Storm had been so immersed in her drawing that she almost dragged the pencil across the paper when they were two knocks on the door. She said loudly, "It's unlocked," before remembering she wasn't wearing anything appropriate for company; black underwear and bra. As soon as the door opened she poked her head out from under sheet, drawing it tightly in front of her and readjusting into a cross-legged position.

Sam looked worn for wear, every sign of lack of sleep revealed in his face, but it brightened a bit as he smiled at the sight of her hair sticking up from static. "Uh, morning." He closed the door on the light of the rising sun.

"You look exhausted."

He exhaled with a small and weary laugh. "Yeah. Rough hunt." The dark curtain in his gaze told Storm 'rough' was a poor substitute for the truth. "Uh, you hold out okay?"

"Yes. Do you want to talk about this hunt?"

"It—" Sam was wary on revealing the gory details to Storm, not because he didn't think she could handle it, but he truly didn't believe _anyone _should have to listen about two feral children, not even spirits, that had to be put down like dogs. He still felt sick on what Dean had shared with him on the matter; that he sympathized with the children on what they had become after a lifetime of abuse, but that he was worse because the children took no pleasure in their killing, whereas he did.

Sam shook his head gingerly. He sat on the bed opposite her, resting his elbows on his knees and wiping his hands down his face, resting them under his chin as stared at her. "Maybe give me a few hours sleep?" He rubbed a bit of crust away from his tear duct. "But you shouldn't have to listen to this kinda crap, Storm. I mean you're dealing with enough already."

"If you've got Hunter 101 handy, I can read that instead."

"Huh?"

"Well I can't just tag around bending spoons to protect myself. I should learn how you guys do what you do so I can help. Lock and load my gun with stone salt or whatever."

Humor broke through Sam's exhaustion. "Uh, rock salt?"

"See? I need help with the basics."

"It's just not a lifestyle anyone should be taking a swan dive into," said Sam with a small shrug. "Also—you've kinda got the whole 'smiting' thing covered. Might be more effective."

The hesitance in Storm's smile caught Sam's eye, who raised his brows questioningly. "I don't think it's a good idea for me to use these powers anymore, even in the simplest of ways."

"How come?"

"I spoke with Castiel."

Sam paused in the action of massaging the bridge of his nose, a frown hardening his expression. "You called Castiel?"

"Because there were still too many unanswered questions."

Sam repositioned himself uncertainly, suddenly feeling much more awake. Why didn't she tell him she had planned to do this? "And did he answer any? I mean, what happened?"

"Yes and no. He was more helpful than he had ever been before, which isn't saying a lot, but he went against orders to give me a better idea of what I am."

"Which is?" Sam asked hesitantly.

Storm stared at him for a few seconds, right into his eyes, but her own didn't look present. "He didn't give a direct answer. But I got the gist." She nervously clasped the pencil in between her fingers, pressing her thumb hard down on the eraser. Sam waited, mouth frozen in form of an unsaid question, feeling incredulous. "I should have told you what I planned to do, Sam. But I knew you would have talked me out of it."

"Yeah," he said slowly. "I probably would have. But I mean, obviously you're okay." He gazed at her. "You are okay, right?"

"Yes."

"So what did he say?"

"I think I was molded together by other beings." Storm sounded as though the words had been punched out of her. Her eyes went a little wide as though, like Sam, it had been her first time hearing them. Her front teeth grazed her bottom lip as Sam tried not to ogle at her. "I should have waited until you got some rest."

"No. Storm . . ." Sam was a little tired of Storm feeling like she was a burden to them, because he considered her anything but. "Look." He massaged his knees for a moment and then heaved himself to his feet, breathing out as he sat gingerly down beside her. He made sure she saw the seriousness in his expression when he said, "Tell me what happened."

She surveyed him, her fingers around the sheet clenching and unclenching. "Castiel made me out to be Heaven's experiment, someone whose humanity had been drained from a very young age." She scratched the side of her nose. "The dreams I've been having of torture have been flashbacks of the—'process' of infusing an angel's blood into me." She hesitated. "Castiel's blood."

Sam's brows briefly lifted again, and then abruptly narrowed. "Cas—they infused Castiel's blood into you?" He quickly pondered. "So that would explain why your abilities resemble an angel's."

"But that was only one species."

"One?"

"He insinuated there were more but—I don't know, Sam."

The way that hopelessness had wavered in her voice when she spoke his name triggered the immediate impulse to pull her against him. He found his arm already halfway in the air, reaching for her, but pulled it off by rubbing his forehead instead. He inhaled and exhaled quietly, peering outside of the window where the new morning light streaked painfully across his eyes.

"I've got to find something. Castiel said that because of the ritual I'll eventually—" When Storm met Sam's eyes, words died on her tongue. She couldn't finish the sentence; his eyes were already filled to the brim with concern. Telling him she might wind up insane would make them overflow. "He said it isn't safe for me to continue using these powers. That I can't handle them." _I'll tell him. I have to tell him._

"Do you have any idea why Castiel suddenly wants to help? And he just . . ." Sam gave a small shake of his head "let you go? After everything he's done to try and get you back?"

"This blood transfusion we did however long ago—ever since I landed eyes on him I felt a connection." Sam stiffened. "And in some of these dreams, it's shown he cared for me when I was little. At least to some degree. I don't know if it's this that has anything to do with it, but telling me what he did, letting me get away; it's showing he has his own doubts about Heaven."

Sam unconsciously scratched his unshaven chin, bullying his weary brain in going over everything Storm had just told him. From how Storm had described it, if Heaven wanted to make a weapon that contained the blood of more than one powerful creature, it was devising an ultimate instrument of destruction. Why would Heaven need that? And why Storm?

"Did he tell you anything else?" he asked after a long pause. He was surprised when she smiled.

"Lily."

"Mm?"

"My name was Lily."

Sam's lips parted, eventually sweeping into a small smile. "After everything, it must be really nice to have something as simple as a name. Lily. I like it. You could—" He flushed a little, shrugging. "You could even go by that now if you want."

"Wouldn't dream of it, Sam." She spoke almost lazily. She tightened the sheet around her, and Sam was visited by the assumption that she wasn't wearing anything underneath it. He quickly averted his attention to what she was saying, blushing still. "Lily was the girl picking rocks and putting it in a pail. Storm's the woman who went to Heaven and back, landed in front of your car during a lightning storm. Two completely different people. I'm Storm, all the way."

Sam stared at her, gaze quickly falling from eyes to lips, and then hastily back up again. He felt—there was no other way to put it—flattered.

What seemed an unconscious action, Storm encased his wrist in a gentle grasp. Her touch ignited his nerves to their most sensitive state, making him deeply wish to return the pressure. "I'm okay. Please believe that," she continued. "Even after partially finding out what I am, there's still got to be a way to work around it. If you have to worry, do it later, but get some sleep now. You look so tired. I should have waited until you got your sleep to tell you. We can talk more when you get up."

"No—" Sam wasn't protesting her words; he was protesting the fact that she had taken her hand away. He felt like an idiot. He had just been told the angels had put Storm through a lifetime of experiments and torture and all he wanted to do was kiss her. Though his concern for her well-being infested his stomach like sour rot.

He shifted, twiddling his fingers in front of him, his throat tightening a bit as he gave her a slightly strained smile. "Okay if I pass out here?"

The light a smile could give her eyes was astonishing. "More than okay." Her eyes trailed off to the armchair, nodding at the clothing that was thrown across it. "Can you please hand me my shirt and sweatpants?"

Sam complied, though still trying to keep his mind of the imagery of what was under the sheets. His gaze was averted as she pulled on her shirt and pants, and when done he sunk into the bed, hoping she would not trail away too far. She pulled her sketchpad from the bed, sauntering over to the windows where she pulled the blinds shut for his comfort.

She did not cuddle next to him as he shamelessly hoped she would, but sat right beside him with her back against the frame, drawing on a picture Sam could not see. He hoped to get a final conversation in, but the sound of the paper on pencil was oddly relaxing, and before he knew it sleep overthrew him.

Storm glanced at him, his expression finally relaxed with unconsciousness. She tightened her knees to her chest, using them as a base for her pad which she began lightly brushing on again. Her eyes flickered repeatedly from his sleeping face to her paper.

A nose that gives a small twitch whenever he smiles . . .

Shaggy brown hair that waves in some places, generally curled behind his ear . . .

.

"Well I'd say it's about time," said Dean, screwing the gas cap back on and returning the hose to its base. "We've got huntin' jobs left and right and I have no idea how accurate your almighty Zeus powers are. I'd like to keep my eyebrows, is what I'm sayin'. You still remember how to lock an' load that pistol?"

"Yes."

"Prove it when we take you out shootin' today. Just don't want you to lose an eye."

"Where are we planning on going?" asked Sam.

"Ah just like the old days, Sammy. Line up a coupla bottles on a fence, see if you can hit 'em." He looked at Storm, jerking his thumb at his brother. "Might not believe it now, but Sammy here used to be a real sissy shot. Least when he first started. First couldn't shoot a beer bottle within a foot of a shot."

"Dude," grated Sam, "I must have been like nine or ten and I never held a gun before in my life."

"Didn't make much of a difference to dad. You were just a real bitch of a shot, admit it."

"Let's just go," grumbled Sam.

Dean laughed and winked at Storm as she glanced at him, who smiled uncertainly back.

.

They chose a remote field about two hundred yards away from a deserted freeway. The sky was a type of blue where its purity was blinding, not a whiff of cloud to conceal the beaming sun. Yet it was still cold and Sam was wishing he had thrown a jacket over his sweatshirt. He glanced over at Storm who was looking very pretty with her hair tied back in a long ponytail, a few stray bang hairs getting in the way of her eyes. She smiled at him when she caught him staring and he smiled a bit awkwardly back before looking abruptly away.

Dean laid out five empty beer bottles on the wooden fence before them, soon to be six as he was now draining a few more drops from his beverage. He asked Storm to pop open the magazine and load the bullets as he had taught her, and she mutely did so without any problems.

"No, don't hold it like you got planks for arms. Just relax a little," Dean instructed, holding up his own in example. "And don't do that sideways shit. Hold it with two hands. Here." Dean set down his weapon, brushing past Sam and maneuvering his way to Storm, a little behind her to her right. He reached around, hands over hers and placing each finger in the correct position.

It was like someone had twisted a fork in Sam's intestines. He suddenly found a thousand things wrong with this situation, jaw locked and putting all his weight on one leg. He felt an itch to hit something, or hit Dean who still hadn't retrieved his hands. He was happy to see that Storm stiffened a little.

"Think—she's got it, Dean," said Sam, repressing his annoyance into a cool and hard monotone.

Dean removed his hands, frowning at his brother. He paused, quirking a brow as he stared at him, the other one following in suit as his eyes shifted to Storm. They started waggling as he looked back at Sam. "Alright Storm, b'fore you even shoot at gun, you gotta know it's all about the position. Sammy here's real awesome at teachin' good positions. Aren'tcha, tiger?"

Dean slapped Sam twice on the back, who was so annoyed he almost hissed, "You are _such _a pain in the ass."

"S'what I'm here for."

Sam breathed out heavily, giving a strained smile as Storm looked between the two with a questioning stare. He gave her a look to excuse his brother for his last comment, but he wasn't even sure if she understood it.

"Uh. Okay." Sam positioned himself behind her, reaching around on either side and resting his hands under her elbows, steadying them. He nudged the inside of her ankle with his toe, indicating for her to widen her stance a bit. "Your feet should be about shoulder-width apart. Just, uh, just relax."

It was so much more awkward when he knew Dean was just standing there with a huge smirk on his face.

"Keep your thumbs clear of the slide and hammer . . . are you right-handed or left? Left," he answered his own question, recalling what hand she used to hold a pencil when drawing. "Uh, alright so use that one for the trigger and your right to moreover steady the gun, and squeeze, don't pull."

"Alright."

He couldn't see Storm's face, but because of her pulled back hair he could see that her ears were red.

Sam's head inclined a bit, absently running his thumb along the bone of her elbow. He swallowed lightly as her smell tickled his nose. Like the scent of moist earth wet with rain water. Nearly like a cartoon character did when the scent of something desirable beckoned them over with an alluring 'come hither' motion, Sam leaned an inch inward so that his nose almost brushed the top of her ponytail. He halted, swallowing hard. The air didn't feel remotely chilly anymore.

"And, uh . . ."

"Squeeze, don't pull?" Storm reminded him in a quiet voice.

"Yeah . . ."

"Sam?"

"And—focus more your gaze on the front sight, and keep it just below the target." He stabilized her arms again, making sure she stayed relaxed, but her muscles were tense underneath his fingers. "Which one are you, um . . ." He ran his fingers through the ends of her hair, marveling at its soft sleekness. He looped his forefinger around a thick lock, and it was too much for his pressure to go unnoticed by Storm. He cleared his throat. " . . . which one are you aiming for—"

The sudden gunshot almost gave Sam a heart attack. The soaring bullet hit the 'No Trespassing' sign just an inch under one of the bottles with a loud clang.

"You are so distracting," Storm whispered hotly, glancing at him over her shoulder. She was blushing.

"Uh, sorry." Sam cleared his throat again, backing up a few paces. He grit his teeth at Dean's snort of laughter. "That was okay for your first shot . . . just need to aim a little higher."

She complied tentatively, giving him a last uncertain look before anchoring her focus back on the target. She hit her first bottle on her second try, and then managed to hit two more right after.

"It's a good start, but a demon or whatever ain't gonna just stand still for ya," said Dean.

So for the next forty-five minutes Sam and Dean would throw the bottles high in the air to see if Storm could shoot them. She had a bit more trouble with this, but her expression remained placid and determined, not seeming to get frustrated. Yet one bottle did explode at its arch without Storm even touching the trigger. As the explosion of glass reflected in the sun's light before falling to the ground, she slapped two fingers to her temple. When asked if okay she didn't seem to hear them at first, and this was when the brothers concluded that it was time to call it a day.

It was nearing the end of the day by the time they passed the Iowa state line, and Dean was pouring over newspaper articles while the three of them ate in a secluded diner. The clear skies could only last for so long; there was a light snowfall outside, the dark atmosphere dominated by the gray clouds above. Sam and Storm were sitting beside each other across from Dean in a booth, both of them sharing a potato salad since she claimed she wasn't very hungry.

"You've been really bending over backwards with the cases, man," Sam commented, dabbing salt over his meal. "You might wanna think about takin' it easy."

"When people are dyin', you don't have time to stop and smell the roses, Sam," replied Dean without looking at him, seeming to be taking on the challenge on how much cheeseburger he could fit into his mouth with one bite. He swallowed, patting his chest with the side of his fist and breathing out heavily. He eyed Storm for a few moments, wiping his mouth off with a napkin before crinkling it underneath his fingers. "I still don't get why Castiel let you go. I mean after everything he's done to try an' get a leash on ya."

"I'm still not one hundred percent sure," admitted Storm. She gave a nervous hum of laughter as her and Sam's forks clinked as they aimed for the same potato. Dean was watching them both closely, eyebrows peeking.

"So what percent of you _is _sure, or at least has an idea?"

"Castiel and I had some sort of relationship before I 'fell'. I think there were long gaps in which they gave me breaks from the experimenting. Within the time of these gaps I think it was his job to look after me." Storm wasn't fairly certain where this was coming from, but as she found the words spilling from her mouth she was certain they were true.

"What sorta relationship?"

"Maybe one strong enough to make him doubt Heaven's intentions with me. I don't see any other reason he would let me go and help me the way he did. That mark on my hip was supposedly a tracking device, but he destroyed it. He could have forced me to come to Heaven."

"Was a bit of a risk, don'tcha think? Why didn't'cha let Sam or me in on your plan? Hell, you coulda been abducted right there."

"Because I knew I had to do it and you would have stopped me."

Dean cocked his head as if to say 'true.'

"There's just one thing I don't get," said Sam after a pause.

"Just the one?" said Dean.

"Heaven's, er, supposedly a monumental fortress of millions of angels. That's a lot of gun power. I just don't get what power a human girl could do what the others can't. Why would Heaven need a weapon in the first place?"

"Well, I mean . . ." said Dean slowly, peering at Storm cautiously who fixed her expression intently, telling him it was okay for him to state his theory. "If you're pumped up with more than just angel mojo, whether that be—demon, or whatever—it's like the best of both worlds, right? What if more than one species mixed together can do something that just an angel can't?"

Storm's back straightened against the booth, planting her hand in the space between her and Sam. He peered sideways at her. She didn't even consider one of the other 'species' being demon. What side effects came with that, if it were true?

_Demon and angel? I am literally the walking proof of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde._

"It's possible," she said through reluctant lips, just to fill in the silence. Her stomach was rumbling and a loud ringing in her ears, her guard lower than ever.

_Scream. Little. Birdy._

The memories of being pinned to black nothingness crashed back down her like an enormous wave upon the shore. The imagery of Dean and Sam, the diner, flashed and faded in and out, as if she was constantly blinking her eyes. Confusion, hate, and pain were like maggots wriggling around her brain and feasting upon her sanity.

_No. I'm here with Sam and Dean, in a deserted diner in Iowa. It's snowing. The potato salad tastes like crap and they're crazy enough to have the AC blasting in here._

"Hey."

Storm opened her eyes to a concerned Sam, and he was such a wonderful sight to see she had to give him a sad smile. She gripped his elbow, partly in comfort and another half to make sure this was reality.

"Think we lost you for a second there," he said.

"No, I'm alright."

"Boy have I heard that one before," said Dean.

Neither of the two heard him. Sam hadn't missed her moment of absence, the crease between her brows as a wave of pain crossed her face. He hesitated, licking his lips nervously and giving a small swallow. His fingers feathered down her forearm, spreading gently across the back of her hand until all five hovered over hers. He nearly gulped at his own daring, his thumb ghosting a slow circle in the hollow of her palm. He gave the back of her hand the littlest of squeezes, waiting five seconds before releasing.

The shadow of Storm's lashes elongated along her pale cheeks as her eyes lowered very slowly. She inhaled heavy air into her quivering lungs, biting down on one of the largest smiles, looking straight ahead again and nervously curling a hair behind her ear. Their thumbs played across each other in a kind of gentle thumb wrestling match, neither of them looking at each other, but their smiles identical to the last millimeter.

"Pass the salt?" Dean asked through another mouthful, glancing expectantly between them.

Storm almost laughed, finally peering sideways at Sam.

_Fighting insanity, and still you manage to bring a smile to my face._

Storm passed the salt to Dean, taking a deep sip from her steaming herbal tea, her and Sam's hands still lightly locked together under the table. His toe nudged her foot, and Storm was glad for the mug to conceal her ever-growing beam.

_Thank you, Sam Winchester._

.

"No peeking."

Sam laughed, eying the sketchpad she was clutching to her chest as though it would explode if dropped. "Is closing my eyes really necessary?"

"Yes please."

She gave him an accusatory stare as they gazed at each other until he eventually gave an uncertain grin, breathing out and shutting his eyelids, feeling a little silly. Storm watched him carefully, dropping the sketchpad and leaning one knee on the bed . She pulled her hair onto the front of her right shoulder, soothing her fingers through the ends. The shower could be heard from the bathroom; Storm hoped Dean took his time.

As she leaned forward, the mattress springs groaned beneath the weight of her knee. She found herself absently eying his hair, almost overthrown by the inane desire to comb her fingers through the length of it. His lips were frozen in the exact smile as she had portrayed in her drawing, and she found herself in love with their every line. They were visually satisfying, but Storm wanted the unfamiliar feel of their pressure. Her eyelashes fluttered as she caught herself, swallowing hard. She shifted close, opening the book leisurely and taking it upon herself to give the drawing another private smile before gently tugging the end of Sam's sleeve. She leaned in a little, meaning to speak normally, but her whispered, "Open," was just breath. But the tickle in his ear made Sam's eyes snap open.

Storm watched his expression with her arms wrapped around her knees, pressing them to her chest and wiggling her toes over the edge of the bed. Sam's smile fell briefly from astonishment, blinking a little rapidly as he took the sketchpad from Storm. His eyes drank it up as if he wanted to print the image into his mind, and then gradually turned to her.

"You drew me?"

"As accurately as an amateur artist like myself can. I just thought it'd be an upgrade from the stick figure drawing I gave you at the hospital three years ago." She smiled shyly into her knee, gazing into his eyes nervously. "I hope you like it."

"Storm—" Sam saw her blushing cheeks and anticipating eyes, wondering if there had been a time where he had ever found anything more adorable. "I mean . . . wow . . ." His eyes occupied her pink face for a few seconds, and then dropped back down to the drawing. Like most of her work, the details were never incredibly intricate, but still she always managed to bring some sort of life into her pieces. Sam imagined that his own eyes might be twinkling back at him or that his chest was expanding with breath. He was flattered and amazed—amazed that she had taken the time to do this and had done so well with it.

"This is amazing. Really." To his delight, her face flushed to even a more lovely color of rose.

"Hang it on your refrigerator."

Sam laughed again, recalling she had said something similar when she gave him the first drawing. "Problem with that is that it changes every night. Oh, uh, hang on . . ."

Sam got to his feet, drumming his fingers upon the sketchpad for a few moments before pulling his bag toward him. He rooted through it for a little under a minute, retrieving the folded up drawing. He only turned around, didn't even speak or unfold the drawing before Storm said, "You kept it all this time?"

Now he was the one flushing. He sat back down beside her, running his thumb along the corner of the paper before giving her his own shy smile. He shrugged and handed it to her, watching her unfold it with tentative fingers.

She studied it for a couple of moments, pressing the back of her knuckles to her lips as a small smile swept across them. "I made you as tall as the width of the paper."

Sam laughed with her, but felt extremely envious as he watched her tongue run along her bottom lip. She looked at him, and Sam tried to measure the space between them, thinking carefully on how to discreetly eliminate it. He licked his own lips, unable to suppress the wonder if her mouth tasted as sweet as she smelled. He watched the color gradually return to her cheeks, as though this thought was wafting freely through the air.

"I didn't know I had this big of an impact on you." Her tone didn't really match her words, as if she was fighting to keep the conversation rolling. "Sam, it's been three years."

"You kept the bird book and stack of Uno cards."

"Yes but what bigger impact can a person have on someone other than saving their life? We knew each other for a week, so I don't understand what I could have done to make you feel it important for you to keep this as long as you did."

It was funny because over the years Sam had asked himself this exact question, but had never had a solid answer. Back when he left her at the hospital, he truly believed he would never see Storm again. But what was it about her, over all that time, that made him wish that he would? When he looked at her now, he had plenty of reasons to boot up that question. But back then, like she said, their meeting had been very brief.

Sam shifted so that he faced her, clearing his throat quietly and smiling a little. He gave a sincere shrug. "I don't know, Storm. I've always thought you're amazing." His fingers were fiddling together nervously, wishing he could have thought about something more profound to say. "And I, uh, realize that that sounds totally cliché and lame."

"No." Storm spoke as firmly as the grip she seized upon his forearm. "It's not because you saved me that makes me care for you so much; not ever in all the time that I have known you have you ever thought about me as 'that girl who fell from the sky'. You only see me as Storm, whoever the hell she is. And you've proven again and again your support and faith, even when you found out I was Heaven's lab rat. Don't even try and get a clear idea on how much that means to me."

There was no way actual electricity wasn't involved when she lightly took hold of his wrist; every hair on his forearms stood on end. His skin was especially tight where her fingers rested. He didn't trust himself not to throw himself at her if he made eye-contact, so he focused his gaze on the beauty mark on her right cheek bone.

"Storm—" They heard the shower turn off and Sam clenched his jaw. Storm's throat was hot as she swallowed, using her intense gaze to support the sincerity of her previous words. Sam was about ready to barricade the bathroom door shut as he heard the shower curtain slide open.

"I need to tell you and Dean something," said Storm, her tone less soft. She released his arm, using her now free hand to slide under her bangs and press against her forehead, as if she had a headache. When she opened her eyes, Sam was under the impression she wasn't seeing the room around them.

She winced when he said, "Storm?"

"I need to tell you now."

After Dean got dressed, he cracked open a beer and offered Sam one, who declined, focused on Storm. Her eyes were burning from not closing them due to the visions that tried to sneak in when her lids were shut. She gazed at the brothers, feeling restless and strangely itchy as she stood before them. She inhaled and exhaled mutely.

"The ritual hasn't gone without any side effects," she started evenly, making both Dean and Sam's eyes flash across her face.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked quickly.

"During the time I'd been seeing those snippets of memory, most of it consisted of them tearing me apart and then molding me back together. The only thing I can identify this as is when they were forcing another species into my body. I don't really know. But I've been seeing it over and over, feeling and hearing it. Sometimes to the point I forget what reality is."

She ran out of breath, feeling a little lightheaded as if the heavy weight of these words had just been abruptly released from atop her head. She breathed in air for her next words, cutting over the brothers as they started to ask questions, "I got back my powers because of that ritual, and sometimes I can't control them. But from how Castiel described it, because I haven't been 'finished', my body and mind aren't capable of hosting it."

This time Storm didn't know how to fill in the silence. Her arms were lightly folded, gazing out of the window and watching thin snowflakes fall and melt upon the Impala's gleaming black surface. The magnitude of her words seemed to make the room stuffy with tension. Sam and Dean's gazes were like rocks thrown at her, demanding her attention. She looked back at them.

"Okay . . ." said Dean slowly, bumping up his eyebrows questioning before narrowing them at her. "Meaning?"

"Castiel said the more I use these abilities the more it affects my brain, but no matter what, it's just time until I—" Her and Sam's eyes met paths. She was really testing herself on her ability to deliver the harsh truth without hesitation, but his gaze was really challenging her on that. However, she forced herself not to look away as she said, "lose my mind."

"What?" Sam's voice was sharp enough to slice steel in half. He was gazing at her, straightening up from his leaning position against the desk, unfolding his arms.

"And you think you can take him on just his word?" asked Dean.

"I don't know," said Storm. "But these flashbacks are real, and every time they happen it gets harder to grip reality."

"Well did he say there's any way of stopping it?" said Sam.

"Apart from going back to Heaven so they can finish me, no . . ."

"And that's so outta the question it ain't even funny," said Dean.

"There's gotta be some way," went on Sam.

"I know there's a way. If there wasn't Castiel might not have let me go." She scratched the back of her neck. "I just don't know it yet."

Again, no one really seemed to know how to fill in the following silence. There was a weight relieved from Storm's chest, but a small part of her (maybe more than small) had been hoping for a little more fear and anger from the brothers. While still completely sane, Storm still had trouble maintaining these powers, which seemed to lash out when her emotions were most high. What would happen if she were to go completely mad and was in the presence of either Sam or Dean? And not just them, but anyone in her path. The world would be dealing with an insane bomb.

When her eyes met Dean's, it was obvious he had similar thoughts running through his brain. Storm was sure that her request on her life if she became too dangerous still applied here. And that was why she couldn't leave them, even if just being in their presence risked their lives. If she became out of control then someone had to be there to strike her down.

Sam looked consumed with his own line of thinking, a severe crease between his brows which were narrowed in intense thought. He gaze flickered to hers, their eyes locked for a long time. After maybe a minute, he shook his head. "We're going to find something. We're not just gonna give up on you. Okay? And you shouldn't either."

"We'll look," she said through immobile lips. "We always do. We'll find something." But Storm felt she was moreover comforting Sam than she was herself. It was hard not to feel hopeless anymore, not to brand an angry fist up at Heaven and curse them for taking away any other life she may have lived. She had always had the gift of dealing with whatever was served on her platter, but she wasn't sure where to start with this one.

But there had to be something.

Storm breathed out again, giving Sam a very firm nod and then not really speaking to anyone in particular, "I need to step outside."

Sam and Dean watched her walk out of the room, looking at each other when the door closed. Dean exhaled exasperatedly, shaking his head at Sam and saying, "You have the weirdest taste in chicks, man."

"Dude . . ."

Dean nodded his head at the door. "I'm not sayin' that's an opportunity, but that's an opportunity."

Sam gave his brother an extremely reproachful look before shaking his own head and following Storm's footsteps. She was halfway to the Impala on the other side of the parking lot when Sam exited out into the bitterly cold winter twilight. His breath fogged before his lips as he stared hesitantly after her, watching her long hair dance behind her.

There was a pause in her stride as he shut the door behind him, announcing his presence. He started walking forward, his shoes crunching in the snow, nose and cheeks turning pink from the cold. The late evening's snow clouds were streaked with lazy violet and periwinkle, but there was absolutely no wind, not even the smallest breeze. Storm wiped her nose before turning to look at him.

It was a fascinating sight. Because of their blinding white surroundings, it made it look as though Storm's hair was almost glowing. She drank up the color of every snowflake, making it almost seem like she was a source of radiance, making everything look gray. He had never seen her dark green eyes stick out as they did now, perched upon his as they stared at each other, ten yards between them.

"I just needed some air," she said.

Sam hesitated. "You wanna be alone?"

She gazed at him for a few moments before shaking her head. "It's kind of what I'm afraid of most."

He swallowed, eliminating several more feet of space between them. "What do you wanna do?"

"What?"

"Just—about anything. What do you wanna do?"

"Go scuba diving with sharks."

His laugh was mist before his mouth, and Storm returned it with a tired smile.

"I don't know how much that would help me in the long run, but it's definitely still on my bucket list." There was a small ringing in her right ear and it felt like her jaw bones had clay stuck in them. Sam was watching her carefully, concern clouding every streak of color in his eyes. She walked to the Impala and leaned against the front of it, face slightly upturned as she gazed up at the sky, the dark clouds the color of a silver pistol. He joined her side, hands in his pockets and chancing sideways glances at her. There was a very prolonged length of silence between them, each of them distracted by their own thoughts, but fed comfort by one another's presence.

"Do you think it's worth losing just a bit of my sanity to give Cas and Uri the Scooby-Doo/Spongebob PJ's?" she said after maybe five solid minutes of silence. The snow was thicker on the ground now, the light fading every minute. Sam tried to laugh, wriggling his numb toes against the soles of his shoes.

"We'll find something," he said again. "I'm not gonna let you just check out like that. You deserve—you don't deserve that. Any of this. I'm gonna help you through this, Storm, in whatever way I can."

"You already help so much without even realizing it. But thank—" They met eyes, and somehow it left Storm a little wordless. She bit her lower lip hard, then running her tongue along the indent. They were shoulder to shoulder, knees almost brushing. There was heat wherever Sam's eyes traveled across her face. She gave a light swallow. "Thank you."

Sam mimicked her and bit his own lip. Somewhere within the next minute, they ended up holding hands again. He could not recall exactly who had taken who's hand, but he didn't really care as they stood in complete silence, watching the snow fall around them.

Storm started restlessly fiddling with the ring on her middle finger of her other hand. "I don't care if I have to go up to the Himalayan mountains, become a monk, and meditate for a decade; I'm not going insane. There's something out there that I'm going to find. _Some_thing."

"Hopefully something that doesn't include shaving your head."

"I could rock the look. Donate the hair to some child to who wants to live the punk rock life."

"You always do that," Sam chuckled.

"Do what?"

"Deflect fear with humor. I can't really tell if doing it makes you less afraid, or you do it to make it seem like you're not."

"Both." Her gaze pulled at his like a magnet. Snowflakes decorated her hair, some clinging to her dark eyelashes which fluttered as she stared at him. "I'm afraid, but I feel stronger admitting that. I'm—terrified."

Sam swallowed, sensing the waver in her voice. They gazed at each other and he gave her hand a tender squeeze, saying quietly, "Of what?"

"Myself. A little of the angels. That I'm just a time bomb, that there's an hourglass with my name on it, the sand draining faster every minute." She nodded slowly, lightly digging her heel in the snow and dragging it backward. "Mostly at the concept of me ever hurting you or Dean. That me staying with you ensures that. I'm afraid of—" Her knee bounced anxiously, lips pursed as she struggled to form the right words. " . . . my existence putting this whole world in danger." She clenched her knuckles in apprehension; Sam made her open up too easily.

"Storm you're not a danger to the world," Sam almost snapped, straightening from his leaning position, unlocking their fingers and and facing her fully, feeling the steely sincerity in his own eyes. "They stripped you apart and gave you all this power—and they wouldn't do that if they didn't think you were strong enough to handle it. And you can. If it were anyone else, I don't know—" He breathed out, practically staring her down. "They're afraid of you. Otherwise they wouldn't be so desperate to get you back. They don't want you to think you're strong enough to handle it when you really are, because they want you to give in."

There was very little light in the atmosphere now. He couldn't clearly see her expression at this point, nor her eyes, but he sensed their weight on his face, felt them studying him. Her breath was thick, and although Storm knew he could not see, but her eyes were burning. Every emotion possible was a crying and angry infant howling for her attention. Little metal rings hooked through her flesh, ropes looped through them with anger, confusion, hate, sorrow and love at the pulling ends of them. A tug-o-war that would eventually leave her ripped and bloody.

The latter was winning, much to her sanity's relief. She knew if she cried, she might break and not be able to put the pieces back together. So she allowed his musky scent to draw her in, letting the barricades crash down to a dusty drop. She hovered her face before his chest, inhaling deeply and slowly, closing her eyes before leaning her forehead against him. Sam draped one arm around her lower back, his other hand lightly tangled in her hair, chin resting on the crown on her head.

Sam only closed his eyes for a second but when he opened them they were completely immersed in a winter wonderland. The only illumination coming from the nearby motel, its cheap lights turning the fallen snow orange. He just continued to tightly hold her against him for however long, wanting to show her every meaning of safety and comfort.

Storm eventually lifted her head from the dark tranquility of Sam's chest, taking her time to show her gratitude within their gaze. It felt so natural that Sam didn't even have time to consider the action of curling her hair behind her ear, giving her a tender smile.

"Better get back to Dean before he thinks something happened to you. And—I need to sleep. Think." Storm's nose twitched as though she didn't agree with her words.

Sam nodded. She took his hand again as they started making their way across the parking lot again, toward their side-by-side rooms. He was literally shivering from head to toe, the tip of his nose completely numb and his breath a little chattery. He was not sure that their fingers would unstick, and was just wondering how this could be a bad thing when she released his hand, staring up at him as they stood outside their doors. Sam could hear Dean watching a movie from the other side.

"Don't try and get a clear idea on how much your support means to me," she reminded him. "I can't possibly word how much _you_ mean to me."

The skip Sam's heart made was almost audible. There was maybe three feet between them, her hand already upon the doorknob. Finally, he said, "I have an idea."

More silence, with only the sharp breeze to break it. He gazed into her eyes, feeling like he was waiting for something, or that there was something that he was missing. When neither of them said anything at all, Storm exhaled mist and said, "Goodnight, Sam."

"Yeah. Night."

Storm turned to the door, her hair barely having time to bounce one way before Sam gripped her wrist, spinning her on the spot and crushing his lips against hers. The force was so urgent that their front teeth bumped together. There was a moment in which Storm stood there like a deer in headlights, her eyes wide open as she tried to compute exactly _what _had just happened. She felt like she had just been shot.

Still, the pressure of his mouth spoke rhythms against hers, one that seemed to awaken life into her lips, urging her on to respond what felt most natural. Sam was moving at a pace suitable to her level of experience; tender and slow, with just enough pressure to rouse her response.

Storm's eyelids fell gently shut, delighted that darkness only seemed to enhance this newfound sensation. He tasted good. So freaking good. Something minty along with natural musk. She gingerly started to return some of the pressure, igniting a flicker of fire to the rhythm of their passionate tempo. She was mesmerized at how good it felt, drunk from the ecstasy of it as she sneaked her hands up his chest, circulating one around his neck in further effort to deepen their lips. She was suddenly the one picking up the tempo, surprised and elated when his lips opened hers, enough for her soft mew of pleasure to die in his mouth.

All the right things were waving through her, greeting the nerves that had never been alive until now. She was lost in the unfamiliar but euphoric sensation, the warm contentment that filled both her mental and physical self, killing the cold of the night. Her heart felt so hot that it could have been making her blood boil.

Sam's fingers dove greedily into her mane of soft hair, weaving them through the length of it. It was like clouds made solid. His thumb traced her bone structure from chin to jaw, lifting to outline the shape of her ear before holding the side of her head.

Storm's lungs were throbbing from lack of breath, having to withdraw to restore the air that Sam's lips stole away. Storm continued to stare up at him, blinking the snowflakes from her eyelashes, a vague "Whoa . . ." slipping from her tongue in a whisper that made Sam beam at her. His thumb smoothed over her lower lip and she swallowed. "Whoa."

"Whoa," he agreed.

"Sam—" She interrupted herself by raising on her tippy toes, much more demanding then he had been when she brought their lips back together. All of her five fingers combed against his scalp, twisting into his hair as her back gently hit her door. Storm didn't have an addictive personality, but she could easily see a potential problem regarding her craving for these kisses. Ten minutes ago, everything had seemed wrong, but now she felt like she could laugh in the face of the angels.

Sam withdrew an inch, eyes still closed as his lips feathered a trail up her cheek, nosing her temple. He pressed his mouth against her hairline, holding the back of her head and smoothing his fingers down her hair until he gripped her shoulder. His thumb circulated around the bone, their foreheads pressed together, noses brushing. Storm's heavy breath came in small puffs against his parted lips, her heart hammering in her throat. Her eyes were still closed, as though taking the the time to permanently save the feeling of the kiss in her brain. When they did gradually flutter open, they anchored on him, her cheeks, ears and chest burning.

"Sam . . ." The word could barely count as breath. She held the side of his face, her thumb pushing on the center of his bottom lip, their heads still pressed together. "You learn I'm Heaven's experiment and might potentially go insane, and you . . ."

He kissed her again, more to aid his constant thirst for her, brushing the backs of his fingers down the center of her throat. "I don't think of you as anything more than Storm, remember? And you're . . ." He laughed at the silliness, "amazing. I think you're amazing. I mean, you're smart, and funny, and you're one of the strongest—" He stopped as her thumb continued the journey of shaping his lips completely. His own thumb was brushing light circles over her beauty mark. Storm's expression only revealed so much of her feelings; the small curve on her mouth almost looked sad.

There was a click and Sam saw that she had unlocked the door without taking her eyes from his, gently pushing it open as it creaked loudly. She took him by the sleeve, leading him past the threshold and into the dark room. The light flicked on without either of them lifting a finger, but Sam barely glanced up this time.

Storm closed the door by leaning back on it, bringing him with her as she lightly gripped his collar. His pulse pounded in his ears as she ghosted her warm lips over his, and with every small breath she delivered her calming scent.

"I don't need you to say any more nice things, Sam Winchester," she said very quietly. "I know what you feel because I feel the same way. This situation is confusing to me because I don't know anything about boys or relationships, and to anyone else this might be one thing too many to deal with. But I don't care. I know you. I want you, and I don't want to take the time to know what that means. Don't say anymore nice things because that's all you've ever done, and I just want us to be quiet. Show me more of what I've been missing out on."

Sam was speechless, but he supposed that was what she wanted. He licked his smiling mouth, drawing in, teasingly hovering a kiss before her lips. It had been a very long since since Sam had felt happiness like this, though he couldn't tell whether his timing was awkward or perfect. Like Storm had said, neither of them knew what could happen. But if the sand was draining, Sam wasn't going to pass the opportunity to do the thing he hadn't been able to stop thinking about.

He smoothed his hands down her waist, pressing their foreheads back together and revering in the feeling of her gripping his biceps. "We're gonna take things slow, okay?"

"Of course," she said, hooking her arms around his neck and moving forward so that he was forced to walk backward until his thighs hit the bed. "But I just said I don't want to talk or figure out anything. Let's do that tomorrow, please."

With a lot more boldness than Sam could have ever predicted, she gently eased him into a sitting position on the bed, resting a knee on either side of him and kissing the cold away from his lips. He couldn't stop touching her hair; it almost felt like water. Triumph and happiness were pounding at his nerves even faster than his heart.

His teeth cautiously latched over her bottom lip, testing her comfort level. She tenderly mimicked the action, her fingers traveling so lightly up his spine that goosebumps were erupting on his skin. He withdrew again, just long enough to smile wide and meet her gaze, brushing her snow-white hair from her eyes that could easily be mistaken for emeralds.

_Literally fell into my life,_ he managed to think as they laid back on the mattress, partially on top of her as the kisses started to become bruising. _Who **are **you?_

She was eager to learn and copied nearly everything he did in a way that suggested the question 'Am I doing it right?' She had her fingers lightly feathering up and down his back in the way that gave him chills, and he felt a little shiver of her own beneath him as he lowered his face to the crook of her neck. It was even better knowing all of these places had been unexplored, that every action he maneuvered across her body was unexperienced. There was something extremely wondrous about kissing someone who had no experience. It was so raw and so pure that it was almost even more enticing than doing it with someone who had done it a million times before.

She sighed into his ear as he nuzzled the crook of her neck, planting a kiss on her pulse point, nearly groaning as she gripped his hair. He sucked her first few hickeys here and there, one on her collarbone that had made her actually gasp.

When lips met again, his tongue slowly slid across the entrance of her mouth, gently asking permission. She took her time in responding, but she only seemed hesitant because she wanted to savor the moment. Her tongue curiously nudged his own, as if expecting a very peculiar taste. She made another sigh of satisfaction at yet another new and enjoyable feeling, every muscle in her body relaxed as she collided her tongue with his more confidently. Her leg was riding up the side of his body, and then hooking their ankles together as they started French kissing more passionately.

The light snow soon transitioned into a blizzard, as if the weather was trying to match their tempo of frenzied kisses. It went without a doubt that their lips would be black and blue come this morning, but they were letting time slip away, kissing for hours as though trying to make up for Storm's three unkissed years. Again, Sam could have been imagining it, but through their connected lips he thought he could feel electricity pounding into him. Or maybe it was just because he liked her so much.

It was nearing four in the morning when their mouths could no longer keep up with their exhaustion, and this time Storm turned off the lamp by hand. She pulled her hair into a side ponytail before rejoining Sam under the covers, ankles intertwined, fingers in each other's hair, eyes closed and lips so close that their smiles brushed.

For the first time ever, Storm cared very little about her lost memories for the same reason she had stated previously; she was Storm, not Lily. She had spent three years building up the person she was now, and anything that happened before then was unimportant to her. It was quite possible that if Heaven had not chosen her for their lab rat, that Storm would have never landed in front of Sam's car, that they would have never met. That she wouldn't be here now, having her first kisses with him, happier than she could ever remember herself being.

Just before falling asleep, Storm nearly laughed at the concept of ever being grateful to the angels.

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading and I dearly hope you have enjoyed this long-winded chapter. Reviews are lemon tarts that make you lose ten pounds with each slice. **

**Have an amazing week, my beautiful readers :]**


	14. From Cloudy Skies to Solid Ground

**I know I'm being rusty with the updates, please hold off with the torches and pitchforks D:**

**Second, it's both Birdcage Fires and Sammy's birthday :D an amazing b-day present would be some feedback, but I am grateful to both those who review and those who do not :] I just appreciate anyone who reads my work at all.**

**One more thing. To my Remaining Dust readers, there is a small easter egg in this chapter for you to find :]**

**Hope you enjoy.**

_-Fourteen-_

From Cloudy Skies to Solid Ground

"So neither demons or spirits can pass a line of salt . . . and a bullet of rock salt can temporarily get rid of a spirit?"

"Yeah. But the only permanent way is to set fire to its remains. If they've been cremated, you look for any piece of their DNA that might be left in their belongings." Sam shrugged. "Like a hat could have a strand of their hair in it."

Storm crossed her legs, tightening the thin sheet around them and repositioning her notebook on her knees. She leaned the side of her head against his shoulder as she scribbled down some words with a blue ink pen. She had little comical pictures of various creatures, monsters and demons along with their weaknesses, strengths and facts written beside them. The cartoon werewolf was stereotypical with ripped jeans and half man, half beast, and the vampire looked like Count Dracula, a little quote bubble stating 'I vant to suck your blood.'

Sam watched her sketch the outline of the ghost, the one that looked like it was wearing a white bed sheet. His left arm was secured around her lower back, fingertips drawing invisible shapes across her hip bone and their ankles loosely locked beneath the covers. There was still a light snowfall outside so the atmosphere was a sleepy light gray. Sam wouldn't have minded if they lazed the entire day away in bed, and he would have much rather his time with Storm be focused on matters that didn't concern hunting or angels, but she was adamant about learning and it was hard to refuse her.

He turned his head so that his lips planted just above her ear, eyes coming to a close as he inhaled her lilac shampoo. She smelled so nature-y, like flowers wet with rain water. He sensed her smile before he saw it and when she turned their noses bumped, lips shying an inch from each other.

"You are not helping."

"For the record, most of the zombies out there won't look like Frankenstein."

"Frankenstein was the doctor. The monster was just The Monster." As he gave a small laugh she added, "Somewhere in the last few years I had a phase where I loved old horror books and movies. _The Invisible Man, Dracula, The Wolf Man, Creature of the Black Lagoon. _Ironically, I was obsessed with monsters. The stereotypical kind." She pressed her forehead to his, giving a small swallow and curling a wave of his hair behind his ear, resting a hand on the side of his neck. She closed her eyes as she breathed out lightly, saying quietly, "I really don't want to get out of bed."

"We don't have to."

"Won't we have to eventually leave?"

He snaked a hand underneath her mane of hair, feathering a line up the nape of her neck with his middle finger. Eyes still closed, her lips parted at the pleasurable sensation. Their noses continued to nuzzle as he replied leisurely, "Road's have gotta be really icy and I don't think the Impala's going anywhere until they clear up or we get a change of tires."

She swallowed again, her grip over the notebook and pen loosening. "I really like you, Sam . . ."

She released the book and pen, and it slid off her onto the mattress, using her free hand to join the other in combing through his soft hair, nails grazing his scalp. Her following words were hot breath in his mouth, "I've always liked you . . ." And then euphoria greeted her nerves with open arms as she revered at the sensation of his lips molding with hers. It was unfamiliar in the sweetest of ways, and it only seemed to become more enjoyable the more they did it. It was like a child's first time trying candy; once they have their first sweet taste and realize what they had been missing out on, they only desperately craved more.

After a few beats, Sam departed their lips long enough to mumble out, "Thought you wanted to work on Hunting 101?"

"Mmm . . . up until like five seconds ago, smart butt."

"Smart butt?"

She stroked the underside of his chin with the side of her forefinger, a mingled order of telling him to come closer and shut up. He had to stop and stare at her for a few prolonged beats before obliging, taking advantage of the new freedom of combing his fingers through the length of her hair. They kissed tenderly. She made him smile when her tongue was less than polite in its search for his. Her left hand maneuvered from the side of his face to the back of his head, fingers clenching and twisting into his hair. Her other hand gripped his shoulder, gently digging her nails into his skin in impatient demand for the delicious weight of his body. He heeded to her unsaid desire, rolling gingerly on top of her without breaking their kiss. Her legs were forced to spread around him, and she gave a surprised and cute "Mmf" into the kiss at this newfound and intimate position. He put most of his weight on his elbow, his free hand still determined to caress and tangle with her every strand of snow hair.

"Storm . . ." Sam nuzzled the lining of her jaw before planting a prolonged kiss to her cheek, then nosing aside her hair from her ear to make room for his lips that whispered, "This only goes as fast as you want it to."

Storm's eyelids fell shut as his lips ghosted electric circles on the center of her neck, her chest elevating and pressing against his as she took a deep breath, exhaling out her nose. There was a trickle of nervousness mingling in with her surfacing excitement, and she decided to word it. "I don't know much about sex. My knowledge exceeds to the birds and the bees talk, the 'when a girl and a boy really love each other.'" Her face flared up immediately and her toes curled in embarrassment. "I'm not really nervous. I just don't want to—do anything wrong."

Sam raised his head, absorbing the sight of her pink cheeks, desperately trying to not laugh at how cute she looked and sounded because he knew she would take it as him making fun of her inexperience. He thumbed aside a lock of her hair, smiling down at her as he took his time in studying her. He gave a small shake of his head. "There's nothing you could do wrong. If we did it, I want you to do it because you're comfortable and want to, not because you're trying to prove you can."

Storm absently bit the back of her knuckles as she stared up at him. "I'm always comfortable around you. One of the reasons I like you so much. I already know for my first time I want it to be you. I feel like I've known that for a long time without actually thinking the words. And I don't know what's going to happen. To me. How much time we . . ." She tucked her bottom lip under her front teeth, as though hoping to choke the unsaid words. Their eyes found each other again. "And I'm still uncertain as far as protection goes . . ."

That was a good point. While Sam was very uncertain on how Heaven's experiments on her could have affected her physically, specifically on her ability to conceive, he didn't think now was a good time to take chances. He didn't buy condoms often, especially considering his last sex partner was a demon (not the time to think about that now). On the occasion he did use one he usually stole one from Dean, but he didn't think highly of trekking out in the snow and rummaging through the Impala in the freezing cold, especially when he had other means of showing Storm the pleasure he had to offer. Even more especially, he would have been perfectly happy with a long make out session, just as long they got to spend the entire day in bed, alone.

Storm cupped the side of his face and he leaned into her hand automatically, both of them taking another innocent moment to share a smile. But for the first time, within a single beat Sam witnessed the innocence in her eyes flicker to a twinkle of mischievousness. She pulled him in for another kiss, gripping the back of his T-shirt and shifting it up his spine a few inches. Her fingers slid up his back and he gave a small start; her skin was considerably cold, but it was startlingly pleasing. He felt his heartbeat in his bruised lips as he was relieved of his shirt. Again, he had to smile as Storm broke the kiss just to stare at his body. She had never really seen the skin of a man that was generally covered in clothing. She brushed her fingers against his abs, nibbling on the corner of her bottom lip, massaging up his ribs, his firm chest, until she was gripping his shoulder again. Her eyes found his again and she swallowed.

Sam captured that vulnerable pouting lower lip between his teeth, holding the side of her face as he cautiously fingered the hem of her shirt. He could actually feel the burn of her blush against his face, but she smiled tenderly into the kiss, which encouraged him. He started lifting up her shirt, kissing up her body as each pale inch was revealed. He stopped at the bust line, letting her take it from there and without hesitation she lifted it over her head. She tossed it aside, giving out a frightened sort of giggle. She was wearing a plain black bra which in contrast, made her skin and hair even whiter. The scar on her hip that only vaguely resembled an anchor was in its final stage of healing, now pink and shiny. He ran his thumb along it, surprised at how warm it was.

He kissed her stomach and her fingers found his hair again, combing through it until Sam chanced a small nibble just below her belly button. She released a small '_Mm_' which could only be taken as a pleased noise and Sam smiled again, his hands now working on her belt, perhaps a bit too cautiously because she said, "It's okay, Sam."

He could hear her breath pick up as he unzipped her jeans, looking up to meet her eyes. She was watching him intently

"Please," she said quietly. He brushed her skin again in response and proceeded to shimmy her jeans down her slender legs, his breath now really hitching in the back of his throat as he was suddenly overthrown by the sight of her nearly naked figure.

Sam's eyes wracked every gleam of her pale skin; the small curve of her waist, the small shadows that her breasts created. She carried more of her weight in her thighs which resulted in a very delectable look.

Not able to resist, he reached out two fingers to brush a feather-light touch up her inner thigh, running them up and down. He felt goosebumps pluck up on the skin beneath his fingers. He thumbed the fabric of her underwear, his chest lifting a little as he gave another breathy sigh.

He almost loved her lack of experience for the whole ordeal; she was untouched, pure, and she was willing to give that all up to him.

"Do you . . . mind?" he said slowly, his hands at her underwear again. She eyed him closely for a few moments, inhaling and exhaling easily, smiling gently.

"Sam, I'm really not nervous. I just don't know what to expect. I've never had an orgasm before."

This little piece of information was as startling as it was exciting to him. _I'm gonna be the guy to give Storm her first orgasm. It has to be perfect. _His heart gave a gallop at the imagery at him giving her his absolute all.

His fingers tickled down her back, finding the bra strap, eyes flickering up to hers in mute request. She kissed him in response, running her own fingers lightly up and down his shoulder blades with a loving caress. He unhooked it fairly quickly and she disposed of it with an unceremonious flick of her hand so that it landed on the bed post. His thumbs simultaneously circulated each nipple, which erected under his calloused skin. With his eyes on hers, he gingerly wrapped his lips—wet from their kisses—around her left nipple, tongue circulating the circle of sensitive pink flesh. Storm made a noise somewhere between a surprised gasp and moan, instantly gripping his hair to apply more pressure, her legs spreading further as her arousal began to boil her blood.

She was just so surprised at how _good _it felt, especially as he began to suck harder, taking more of her into his mouth, tongue never inactive, massaging her other breast with his lusty fingers. She encouraged him with her small mews of pleasure, which intensified into a high moan of desperate longing as he used two fingers to rub her clit over her panties. Through the cotton material, she still dampened his fingers, and she was as hot as a furnace. His lips unmounted her engorged nipple with a smack, still not breaking eye-contact, rolling his tongue along the light hickey he had branded on her.

He kissed her stomach again, his eyes closed momentarily as his lips left a trail of gentle nibbles all around her pelvis. His teeth latched around the outline of her panties and he only waited a moment before giving them a very small downward pull. He stopped immediately when Storm's legs clenched together, stopping him from proceeding. He looked back up at her to see her face the color of rust again. He had never seen her blush so much in one sitting.

"I just—I read somewhere—I heard men don't like it when it's not . . . shaved."

With the fierce contrast of her red face and white hair, she looked a little like a terrified turnip.

Sam only gave her a little smile, lowering his head again to nuzzle her soft stomach with his nose before kissing her with what he hoped was a perfect balance of rough and softness. The very thin and light hairs beneath her belly button made the skin soft as peaches, tickling the end of his nose as he continued to deliver his kisses, holding either side of her firm waist with his hands. He felt a tug of triumph as he felt her leg muscles relax, even as his finger once more looped around the waist of her panties.

"Storm, I couldn't care less about things like that . . ." He spoke gruffly, a definite rough edge of lust in his voice now, even as he strained to keep his tone gentle. It was getting harder to contain himself.

The whole of his hands slid down the sides of her legs as he pulled her underwear down. When it reached her ankles, she flicked it off with one foot, and when Sam looked up at her again, she smiled.

He brushed the area around her bikini line with his thumb, kissing that piece of skin too and Storm stiffened Sam could tell not with apprehension, but anticipation. His hands started at the bones of her ankles, then sliding up her knees. He caressed his lips up her inner thigh, slipping out his tongue, gently telling her to allow him entrance. She obliged quite calmly, though with a violent shiver. Her every muscle was tense like a person awaiting a tickle.

Storm could feel her heartbeat in her entire body, her rushing blood creating a fiery friction against her pulsating veins. She had never so badly anticipated something she didn't even know what felt like. But this surfacing physical need for Sam, this lust, was like a creature that had been slumbering in the shadow of her being for years, now sniffing the air hopefully the closer Sam lowered his face to her untouched folds. God, she could feel his hot breath down there, and she breathed out sharply from her nostrils in frustration, curling her toes against the sheets. She was anticipating his touch so badly, having no idea how it was going to feel, but just knowing he needed to start touching her _now._

She spread her legs further, running her fingers desperately through her hair. "Sam . . . please . . ." She spoke in a voice he had never heard before, but he had been waiting for the words that confirmed her absolute longing.

He made sure to look directly up into her eyes as he neared his mouth to her lower lips, watching her reaction closely as he placed his thumb on the tumid bud, starting out with gentle and rhythmic counterclockwise circles. She made an uncertain pleased hum, watching him eagerly, eyes feasting upon his every action. He made the circles shorter and faster, seeing her stomach inflate and deflate more rapidly as her breathing picked up. He had to give a final smile before he removed his finger, securing himself on his elbows and gripping the underside of her knees, sliding his tongue into the wet folds of her slit. She sighed out as if he had just dropped an ice-cube down the back of her shirt, sucking in an abrupt breath that quickly transitioned into a drawn out moan as he started to more thoroughly taste her. He moved at a gentle pace at first, taking his time in gingerly building her pleasure, making sure she felt every sinfully slow swipe of his tongue.

"S-Sam . . ." Storm's pounding heart and inflamed lust restrained her from raising her voice any higher than a breathy moan, but Sam recognized the unsaid demand for more. Her eyes snapped open as his entire mouth enveloped her clit, tongue swirling and lapping in short, fast, frantic movements. His thumbs were pressing into her soft thighs, keeping her legs spread to him as he flattened his tongue against her hot center, making a fervent swirling motion around it before penetrating. She went rigid beneath him, her chest convulsing upward as if she had a hook attached to her torso. She gripped his hair, applying desperate pressure to increase the pleasure that only continue to bloom in white waves of dangerous euphoria from her center.

Because of her rapid panting, her lungs were being denied their required oxygen so her moans of "Sam, Sam, Sam, _Sssaaa—_G-God, _ohhh,_" were mere gasps in the air. She forced herself into a more upright position, her face screwed up in paralyzing bliss as she fought to watch him fuck her with his experienced and furious tongue. Her legs were shaking under his grip, the white fire burrowed in her stomach only building higher and higher.

Neither of them were even vaguely aware of the flickering lights, that their speed was quickening in time with Storm's rising orgasm. Her elbows buckled, her back hitting the mattress again, reaching behind her and clenching the pillow, biting desperately on her lip. Every last one of her senses were all but blind save for feeling the rhythmic circles of Sam's tongue that made it impossible for her to acquire breath. His face was raising up into her, buried in her pussy, sucking hard on her clit.

Then, every wave of euphoria that had been endlessly building, every searing white flare of ecstasy that buzzed through her nerves in tremors—it all crashed right down on her in an avalanche that left her winded. Her muscles went rigid, lungs pounding like hearts, her lips slightly ajar with a breathless moan that finally choked out Sam's name. She didn't even notice the explosion of the desk lamp bulb, and Sam, who was too caught up in his arousal from her orgasm, didn't either. A scorching wave passed through her, making her buck her hips slightly, grinding against Sam's face as he licked everything up. She was quivering uncontrollably, her shaking fingers fighting to comb through his hair, nearly sobbing. He raised his face to kiss her stomach, still gently rubbing her clit to ease her down from her orgasm.

"Sam, I . . . oh God . . ." Storm was positive the power of her climax had obliterated the nerves in her legs, leaving her handicapped. But Jesus, she couldn't care. Her skin stretched over her ribs as she sucked in an enormous breath, her toes tingling. She brought Sam's face back to her, and he hovered over her, one elbow resting beside her and the other hand holding the side of her face as he kissed her. Yet again, more blushing when she realized she was tasting her sweet self on his lips and tongue. Her eyes were closed long after the kiss broke, and he watched her until they fluttered open, anchoring on his face. She brushed his hair from his eyes, chest still rising and falling.

"If I had known what that felt like, I would have admitted my feelings much sooner."

Sam laughed. "That good?"

"Yes you are." She gripped the back of his neck, bringing their lips back together. He pulled them up into a sitting position with her on his lap, her legs instinctively securing around his waist. The way their tongues writhed together was like a sting of pleasure for Sam, running his hands up and down her smooth body, anywhere he could caress. He had to give her pointers for her sluething skills as he heard a metallic tinkle and felt the flaps of his belt hanging loosely.

Sam gently bit the lobe of her ear. "Storm, I really wanna make this about you right now."

"You just did."

He kissed the tip of her nose. "It's not a race. We still have time."

Storm was disquiet, her eyes flickering over the bulk of of his shoulder and locking her hands behind his neck. 'We still have time' suggested there was time to lose, that all of this was just temporary. The concept made her heart feel hollow, but she blinked rapidly as if to dismiss this thought, looking back at Sam who had noticed the effect of his words.

"Storm—"

"We don't know that." She shrugged and smiled, but not out of humor. "We don't. We have time, but we don't know how much. But it's all the more reason for me to be happy, and being with you makes me happy. If we don't have protection, then I want to try everything else there is to try until we do. Being with you, under all definitions, is how I mainly want to spend my time, however long it lasts. Also, I just came so hard I think I almost passed out. So, Sam Winchester," she pressed her forefinger against his lips to shush his unsaid protests, "take off your damn pants."

Sam wondered if there was a man alive who could deny her request, especially when delivered so bluntly. It was official; he adored her. He finally allowed his arousal to let loose in his broiling blood as their lips crushed back together, tongues breaking the seams and writhing in a furious dance of untamed passion. Without breaking the kiss, she undid his jeans and bit his lip as she began to impatiently shimmy them down his waist. Her face lowered to his neck as he worked on thoroughly disposing himself of his pants. She sucked and licked at his hot flesh, making him unconsciously curl his lip, tightly holding the back of her head.

Once he sat in just his boxers, which did little to conceal his obvious arousal, she pulled at his elbows to lead him to the center of the bed again. They French kissed briefly before she was applying pressure to his shoulders, indicating him to turn and lie on his back. She positioned herself on top of him, a leg on either side of his waist, hair hanging like solidized smoke around her shoulders and breasts.

Neither 'innocent' or 'gentle' came to mind as he stared up at her, as if having her first orgasm was all that was needed to give her confidence in her sexuality. She kissed down his body, and there was no denying that there were definitely spasms of electricity shivering in his blood wherever her hot swollen lips planted. His fingers soared her hair as he watched her, green eyes flickering up to his as her fingers looped in his boxers, careful to release his now-pulsating erection. His chest constricted, suffocating his galloping heart, as finger by finger, she wrapped a gentle grasp over his shaft. As she made her first strokes, she observed his face closely for his reaction. Everything about his expression pleaded that she proceed, so she gingerly massaged up to the head with a twist, and then back down.

Sam closed his eyes briefly, the better to experience the waves of cool burning pleasure emitting from wherever her fingers brushed. He whispered out her name, followed by a sharp sigh as she increased her speed. She shifted down between his legs, her elbows resting on his thighs. His muscles immediately went rigid when he felt her hot breath puff against the head, his knees locking.

"Sam." His eyes snapped open at once, and he almost came at the vision before him; the sight of her gently stroking his member, huge eyes only blinking to disrupt their eye-contact, white hair disheveled, cheeks still lightly pink, and her pouty lips were red and swollen from their kisses, inches from his hard cock, breathing down it. "I need you to tell me what to do."

_Oh Jesus, that's so hot. _

In Sam's brief amnesia of the English language, he mumbled out something that was partly gibberish and the other half a grumbled groan. Whatever it was, it made her laugh.

"Sam." There was nearly something wickedly innocent in her voice, like a pornstar portraying a shy and pure schoolgirl. This was a side he never saw of Storm, one he wasn't even sure existed. But he sure as hell liked it.

"Start—licking from the bottom to the head," he got out, his own words enticing to him. Without a breath of hesitation, she acted on his words as if she'd done it a thousand times. Sam's moan shuddered and died in his throat. She began to stroke him again, waiting for instructions, which alone was someone sexy. "Lick around the head, and suc—oh God, hellfuck." Her tongue swirled around the end, sucking briefly before taking more of him into her mouth. And he just watched, stricken with pleasure, as his throbbing cock was swallowed up by her willing lips. The rest came naturally to her, her tongue never inactive, her hard sucking making her cheeks hollow out. He fueled her confidence with his groans of "God, Storm . . . feels amazing . . . amazing, you're so amazing. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ . . .!" He shifted her hair into a messy ponytail to keep it from her mouth, and she moaned over him, making his entire dick vibrate. She started to jack off his shaft again with firm twists, head still bobbing up and down, never taking her eyes from his.

Watching her suck on his cock, listening to her sucking noises that dominated the room, feeling her moan over him; Sam could only hold out for so long, and every one of his muscles were strained so tightly it felt like they were going to snap in half.

"Storm, I'm gonna—_fuck!_" Again, following natural instinct, Storm relaxed her throat, allowing her to take him deep until she was completely deprived of air. He gripped her hair tighter as he came so hard he couldn't help but bucking his hips forward, nearly yelling at full volume. Storm was surprised but unwavered as the hot cum shot down her throat. She eased her fingers up to the head again, lips parting from his member with a _pop_, swallowing and wiping her lips as she looked back at him.

"That—" Sam sat up abruptly, pulling her against him, kissing away her words, tightening her so tightly against his bare body her breasts were suffocated against his chest. He was panting into her mouth, still winded from his climax. There was less lust in their lips, their passion more tender, but the glow of affection and emotion between them abundant as ever. In fact, Sam was positive if their lips weren't locked together, he would have found himself saying 'I love you' without thinking twice about it. He pulled her onto his lap again, leaning back on the headboard, kissing until they neared suffocation.

When he had to break their lips to breathe, he was using his precious air to whisper her name against her mouth. He was as winded as someone who just exited the boxing ring, yet when she reached down between their legs in attempt to massage hardness back into his member, he found—incredibly—that she was succeeding. How the hell was that even possible? Instant hard-on electricity Viagra?

She said, hardly recognizing her own voice, "Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it."

And he did.

.

It didn't take them long to find another case, and by the time the roads cleared the next day they were off to Sioux City, where one specific odd death occurred. On the ride there, Storm was leaning forward from the backseat, elbows resting on the back of the brothers' seat and notebook in hand. She was still asking them to relay the basics of Hunting, still doodling little weapons and crosses in the corner of the paper. While neither of them had a problem with it, (Dean was even amused) he pointed out Hunting is a lot more than 'Reciting homework like a brown nosed fifth grader and that you needed to do a lot more than memorize a demon/monster/spirit's weakness.' He also pointed out that if Storm desired to impersonate an FBI agent, it would be a little difficult to convince others to take her seriously with her hair color. Storm was determined not to be put off with her 'first case' though. Apparently with this one, real magic was being performed, which intrigued Storm, who was acting like a kid going to their first trip to Disneyland.

Once in the city, the brothers had to stop at the dry cleaner's to press their suits and afterward they stopped for some late lunch, going over newspaper articles and clippings with the enthusiastic help from Storm.

Dean had been watching the two all day, and it was a no-brainer that some serious hanky panky had been going on in their motel room the previous day. He was in a mingled mood of 'That's my boy' and 'Heaven's experiment? Really?'. Seeing them sitting across from him in the booth now, holding hands under the table, thinking they're all discreet with the sideways glances they give each other; he could easily picture them sharing a strawberry milkshake with red-striped straws, or feeding each other maraschino cherries. When Storm was in the bathroom, he promptly informed Sam, "You guys are givin' me a toothache. The kind that aches and keeps you all night, and you just want to rip that sucker out." Sam could think of no other response other than to shrug and grin.

Dean wasn't used to being the third-wheel, but that wasn't what was bugging him. He had really grown a fondness and serious respect for Storm, but lately he had been walking around with her request to her kill her screaming in his head. The way she walked around wearing Bambi innocence, it was very easy to forget what she could do, and he wasn't even entirely sure what that was yet.

He wanted to be happy for Sam, that he could at least grasp a little bit of normality, especially after Ruby. Sure, Storm wasn't exactly 'girl next door' normal, but she was certainly an upgrade from a demon. And he liked her. It was so hard to think practically when he saw how happy Sam was with her, so much so that he wished he could just turn a blind eye and let them have what they have, however long it lasted. He hated, _**hated **_the idea that if she were to ever become uncontrollable, that he might have to shoot down the girl that his little brother was currently playing footsie with.

"Everything okay for you all?"

It had never been so pleasant to be ripped from his thoughts, and Dean couldn't have imagined a better distraction. The waitress was a satisfying 5'7, breasts that could cut through a window if cold enough, strong legs that were hugged by her black shorts (Dean appreciated her sacrifice in the winter weather), dark red hair tied back in a low messy bun, and hazel eyes that almost had a yellowish-green glare. The name tag on her white T-shirt's left breast red Kathy T.

"Oh, it's even better now," Dean grinned. She twitched a smile back at him, reaching over to retrieve his empty plate. Her fingers lightly brushed his, and he was startled at their heat.

"I like your hair," she told Storm before she walked off with dirty dishes in arms, shooting Dean a glance over her shoulder.

"She look familiar to you?" Dean asked his brother. Sam briefly glanced after her and then shrugged.

When they checked into their motel, darkness was eating at that atmosphere and the dense clouds threatened more snowfall. Their breath was mist before their lips, even inside their room. Storm was quick to turn on the heat, teeth chattering as she tightened her jacket around her.

Sam and Dean suited up and the youngest caught sight of Storm eying him with a small, half-mouth smile, looking up from his black polished shoes to his creaseless red tie. She was seated in the rolling desk chair, one leg folded on the seat, and the other planted on the floor and slowly pushing herself from side to side. As per usual, her sketchbook was in hand, but her pencil was tucked behind her ear. When she did nothing but grin, Sam found himself returning it and saying, "What?"

"Oh, nothing," she said, but he didn't believe her.

He had to kneel before her, but he cupped the side of her face and kissed her lightly. When he pulled away, their lips were still a centimeter away from touching. "Since yesterday, I really think the whole 'pure' thing has been an act. Can't fool me anymore." He kissed her again, slightly longer. His large hand covered both of hers. "Tell me when we get back. We just have to go interview the assistant of the vic, uh, some guy named Vance. Died during a magic show."

"Was he stuffed with swords, or sawed in half?"

"Actually . . . yeah, he dropped dead after ten stab wounds, but there wasn't a single tear in his shirt."

"Sammy ever mention to you he used to be into all this kinda crap?" said Dean unexpectedly from the bathroom doorway, in the process of doing up his tie.

"Stabbing people?"

"The hocus pocus crap."

Storm smiled widely and looked at Sam just in time to see his eye-roll. "Dude, I was thirteen. It was a phase."

"I mean, you had," Dean was chuckling now, eyes lost in amused reminiscence, "you had this little wand and card deck."

"Long black cape, top hat?" Storm added, her cheeks aching with restrained laughter.

"Alright you guys . . ."

"Dice and multicolored scarves tied together," chirped in Dean cheerfully.

"Did you have any doves stuffed up your sleeve?" Storm grinned.

"Okay, okay." He was glaring at her in the fondest way possible. Still laughing appreciatively, Dean disappeared back into the bathroom. She was still grinning playfully and turning slightly from side to side in her chair. "How've you been? I mean, with everything. You haven't had anymore flashbacks, have you?"

"No, not since yesterday." Her relief was evident, but so was her slight trepidation.

Sam squeezed Storm's hand and she returned it. "We're not gonna be gone for long. I mean, we can probably figure out a way for you to come and help with the questioning."

"Law Enforcement people aren't permitted to have unnatural hair color. It's kind of a big giveaway. Plus I'm not sure if I could act all authority-like. Probably end up laughing or something. Anyhow, I can help from here. Do the research thing. And some research of my own. Google insanity remedies. See if there's a _Being Heaven's Experiment for Dummies_."

Sam's lips pressed together. "We'll find something."

"I know."

He kissed her for a third time, and it felt like her first time all over again. It was deep and slow, and it made Storm high. Her peppermint chapstick made Sam's lips tingle, and his tongue gently flicked at it appreciatively. She gently gripped his smooth collar, anchoring him to her, against her. She wanted to make every kiss last, savor and memorize the feeling of every one, just because she wasn't sure if they were numbered.

They only broke apart because Dean reentered the room, looking unexpectedly somber. When they eventually left, Storm was trying not to feel like a puppy that had been left at home while the owners were away and staring at the door with sad eyes. Sam had granted her permission to use his laptop, so she set to work, the research a welcome distraction.

It began to snow within the following hour and Storm sat with her crossed ankles perched on the desk, laptop in lap, notebook in hand and pen clutched between her teeth. She started with the history of Sioux City, digging deep for any unusual deaths within the past century. They were all ordinary, up until last week at the magic show. There was little she could find on Vance, who didn't seem to be a very well-known magician, but from how it looked, he had enemies.

After she had two pages of notes written down, she made herself some green tea and visited the vending machine in the motel lobby to buy a small bag of Cheetos. When she returned to the room, the window was open. It drafted a freezing breeze along with a few flakes of snow into the room, making the white curtain flutter in a ghostly manner.

She set aside her snack and drink, approaching the window warily. She had not been the one to close it, so she didn't know how tightly it had been shut. It was windy outside, so a strong breeze could have opened it. But she wasn't going to rule out other possibilities. They were on the second floor so she had a clear view of the street below, which was not very busy due to the bad weather. Quiet thunder was rumbling, a small flicker of light behind the dense gray clouds above. The tip of her nose and toes were red and freezing. She closed the window tightly, locking it, and drawing the curtains.

Maybe she should have put angel sigils on the windows, but Castiel had said because he destroyed the mark on her hip she was untraceable, as well as everyone around her. But did she trust him that much? What if he had said that to give her a false sense of security? What if, in fact, destroying that mark made her an easy target somehow? A third if; if he really wanted to capture her, why didn't he simply snatch her when he had the chance the other night? He could have easily done so. But she wasn't clear on the angels' thinking process; he could have any reason.

Storm wasn't going to begin to take chances. She found some red paint in Dean's bag and copied the sigil from one of Sam's helpful textbooks, dragging her fingers across the glass window so they made a squeaking sound. When content, she did a quick scour of the suite for any other strange signs and found nothing.

Gathering up her snacks, laptop, and notebook, she trudged on into one of the bedrooms. She pulled on a gray sweatshirt of Sam's that reached her knees, the hood nearly overlapping her eyes. She was snuggled in the covers that were surprisingly warm, wrapped up like a burrito and typing away on the laptop again.

She wanted to focus on researching anything that connected to the name Athedas, but Castiel was buried in the roots of her mind, and she couldn't seem to weed him out. Had she placed too much trust in him? Was he using their connection to his and Heaven's advantage? Was that sweep of care for her in his eyes simply a mirage? True, she might have been desperate for his support like a lost traveler in the desert was desperate for water, but his apparent faith and loyalty might be an oasis that slowly dissipated into just another patch of dry sand.

Just as she wondered how the brothers were doing, she checked the cell phone for any text messages, but no word. She didn't even know how to text properly seeing as she had never even held a cellular device until Sam had given her this one.

Storm still got hot in the face whenever she recited yesterday morning. Had she had ever been horny within the past three years? Well, no, not really. Before Sam, she never felt attraction (of any kind) toward anyone. When you have no idea who/what you are and are just trying to get by in life, fit in with mainstream society, try to have friends, you don't really have time to even consider boys. Sam Winchester had introduced her to her sexuality (and what an introduction it was!), and to Storm, that was just gaining another piece of 'who' she was. Since then, she had practically been blooming with lust. It wasn't an unwelcome feeling, but it was slightly overwhelming.

She reread a single sentence at least five times before she admitted to herself that her thoughts were focused on Sam's talented tongue. She tightened her knees together, cupping her cheeks and testing their warmth. If her regained powers didn't eventually drive her insane, then this longing for Sam Winchester most certainly would.

And why on earth hadn't anyone told her how freaking incredible an orgasm felt!? It was like she had been deprived of food for her entire life (three years, whatever). The only person she had even talked about sex with was her coworker, Nancy, who got married fresh out of high school. In her words, her husband had as much direction down there as 'a drunk and blind llama', so it wasn't like that was the best incentive. Sam definitely blew that expectation out of the water, considering his tongue was much more like a propeller. Operated by 626 horsepower.

Storm literally caught herself with the tips of her fingers inside her sweatpants. She gave a light swallow, closing her eyes briefly and biting hard on her lower lip in frustration as she forced herself to turn away from the almost overwhelming desire to mimic the circular motions Sam had done the previous morning. She needed to concentrate. Every second counted now, and if she found a solution, she didn't need to worry about them being numbered.

Forcing herself to focus, Storm she went through website after website, weary eyes zipping back and forth as she read, absently sipping her drink. Somewhere within the next half hour, she dozed off, the notebook and pen falling from her loosened grasp and onto the floor.

It went unnoticed that the cause of the open window sat on the roof a few feet from in her bedroom window, wearing a tan trenchcoat, hands stained black from the damp shingles, and sad blue eyes perched on the dense and gray bottomless pit above. He blinked thick snow from his lashes, watching as one by one the city's lights turned off. He glanced over his shoulder and through the window at the slumbering girl wrapped tightly in blankets, hair as white as the snow falling around him.

He didn't need to stay any longer; he had concluded that Storm was untouched by Uriel, or any other angel. For the time being, she was safe. But she wouldn't get far with the idiot-box research, and also for the time being, there was nothing he could do about that now.

The angel didn't give Storm a second glance before he dissipated into thin air, leaving nothing behind but the sound of fluttering wings.

.

Sam had returned by himself a few hours later. It was around nine and the raging blizzard made Sioux City a ghost town. Under the instructions of the three elder magicians, Jay, Charlie, and Vernon, Dean was seeking someone ominously named 'Chief', in hopes of looking into the tarot card that had been found on Vance's corpse. He hadn't gotten back to him yet.

He smiled to himself when he found Storm passed out, curled up in the covers and wearing his sweatshirt. He retrieved her notebook from the floor and picked up his laptop, straightening the blankets over her. He brought the notebook with him out into the living area that was connected to the small kitchenette. Seating himself down on the couch, he flipped through the pages and studied them for a few minutes.

He didn't get very far because there was a knock on the door.

The list of people visiting him were very slim, so that brought him to a very unfortunate conclusion. He half considered ignoring it, but after the second knock as well as a brisk female voice saying curtly, "I know you're in there, Sam", he set aside the book and got to his feet. Having no need to look through the peephole, he opened the door to Ruby's impatient face.

"What're you doing here?" he asked.

"I should ask you the same thing. If I knew any better, I'd say you were giving me the cold shoulder."

"Working a job."

"The whole world's about to be engulfed in hellfire, and you're in Magictown, USA."

Sam didn't laugh. Before she made any action or request to come in, he slid out into the hallway and closed the door quietly behind him.

"I've been trying to get a hold of you these past few weeks. What's so important that you've been doing that you completely ignore me? Thirty-four seals have been broken. Thirty-four, Sam. That's more than halfway. The angels are losing this war. Lately I haven't even been able to get a clear target of where you are. What have you—" Her dark eyes flickered to the closed door, then just as quickly back to him.

"Been tied up." It wasn't lying.

"With what?" she said in a frozen voice, making it clear there was nothing that could have been a suitable enough distraction. Her eyes flashed to the door again, as if a pungent scent suddenly hit her nostrils. "You're still held up with lightbulb smashing Comic Con girl?"

"Her name's Storm."

"For God's sake, Sam, you don't have time to be dicking around. The world doesn't have time. Every day is one day closer, and if someone doesn't do something soon—"

"And that someone has to be me?"

"Who else would it be?

His voice lowered. "I don't know where all the seals are. I don't know squat. Why don't you tell me where to start?"

"You can stop tailing around with Heaven's bomb, for one. What did you even find on her? Do you even know what she is?"

Sam's molars were grinding and his thoughts were obscured by hot frustration. He strongly wanted to avoid bringing Storm up between any conversation between him and Ruby. "This isn't about her, alright?"

"I don't know about that, especially when you have no idea what it is she can really do, who she really is."

"I know who she is."

"And who is she to you?" Ruby shook her head as she studied his face, his silence like a screamed confession. "Dammit, Sam. Can you tell me that she one-hundred percent won't get in the way of stopping the apocalypse?"

Sam's eyebrows dropped heavily. "What?"

"Someone falls from the sky and your first inclination is to trust her? I'm on Heaven's side for this war, I have to be. But I know the kind of shit they cook up there, and I know what they do to get their way." She shook her head again. "Maybe I'm completely wrong. For all I know, she can help. But no matter what she is or what her intentions are, she could slow you down, stop you from being willing to do what it takes to save the world, to kill Lilith."

"Oh, I'm game, believe me. It's not the psychic thing I have a problem with."

"I know what you have a problem with, but tough. There's no other way."

"No."

Ruby's smile was just a curve on her mouth. "You know this would be so much easier if you just admit to yourself that you like it. That feeling that it gives you."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

Her eyebrows lifted. "It's simple. Lucifer rises, the apocalypse starts. You think you have demons on your hands now? People are gonna die, Sam. Oceans of people. Then you _really _won't have a girlfriend. You know, if she doesn't kill you and everyone else first." She turned to leave. "So you let me know when you're ready."

* * *

**Thoughts? :]**


	15. The 'L' Word

**I'm not dead, I swear. This chapter just took me forever to get out, and I will be waiting eagerly for your feedback, mainly because I'm a bit iffy about it.**

**Thanks for reading and hope you enjoy :]**

_-Fifteen-_

The 'L' Word

_People are gonna die. Oceans of people._

Sam's entire body started as his eyes shot open, as if the words had been screamed in his ear. His heart was pounding in his throat and his tongue felt like a cotton ball. He sat upright, chest heaving as he stared into the darkness of the room. His movement caused the woman lying next him to stir, swiping white strands of hair from her eyes that were frowning up at him.

"Sam?" She was barely conscious. "Whas wrong? Do we gotta fight . . ." She lightly fisted the air to show her enthusiasm.

"No," said Sam quickly, gently taking hold of her wrist and laughing weakly in spite of himself. "No, Storm. Go back to sleep."

She rubbed her eye with the hand he wasn't holding. "You had a nightmare?"

"No," he said again.

She mumbled something that sounded like 'Liar'. Sam leaned forward, pressing his lips against her forehead in what he hoped was a reassuring way. He stayed like that for awhile, but when he withdrew, she only looked more suspicious. He stared down into her eyes with a timid smile. "I'm alright. Just go back to sleep. You only got to bed an hour ago and it's almost five."

They had spent most of last night talking, about his life, about hers, something they had failed to do since reunited nearly a month ago. He got to hear more about her two years at the hospital, her one year alone, and she about his life once Dean reentered it three years ago, and even a little about his earlier time with his father.

Sam's throat was still sore from talking so much. He couldn't remember the last time he had actually had a conversation that lasted hours, especially concerning something so simple as telling someone about himself, and vice versa. It was a miracle after putting the horrors of Sioux City in their rear view mirror, but Ruby's words had come back to haunt him.

Now, the hours of bliss spent with Storm, just talking, a little making out, felt like a firework that had burned and glittered its brightest, now dissipated, leaving nothing but the cold and dark.

Storm held the side of his face, frowning up at him, expression still pregnant with concern. Sam took her hand, kissing the backs of her fingers. "Sleep," he ordered gently. Wrapping an arm around her, he squeezed her shoulders and, a bit grudgingly, she rested her head on his chest, but fell back asleep fairly quickly. She snored, but not in a loud, annoying way. Soft, almost cute. But then again, he found most everything she did cute. She could pick her nose and he'd call it adorable.

But he was gonna lose her.

The thought broke into his brain, as welcome as a burglar. It even made him grimace. He fought the urge to shift restlessly, not wanting to wake her up again. He swallowed, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand, but it was empty.

Careful not disturb Storm's slumber, Sam got out of bed and entered the bathroom, shutting the door on her deep breathing. He refilled the glass, drank, and then splashed cold water on his face, welcoming the shock. When he met his reflection, he wished he hadn't. He saw the trepidation brewing in his eyes. His heart started pounding again, and he continued to splash freezing water on his face until it went numb.

He was gonna lose everyone.

_What if I can stop it?_

He dabbed his face with a towel, keeping it buried there for a few long seconds.

_What if I'm the **only **one who can stop it?_

Sam raised his face from the towel, brushing away a few hairs matted to his forehead. He stared at his reflection accusingly.

_But if you **did **say yes and Storm found out . . ._

_You'll lose her anyway._

This former thought was in Ruby's voice. He doubled over a little, as though it was a physical punch in the stomach.

_And Dean—he'd never be able to look at you again._

Yet somehow, the concept of the apocalypse frightened Sam a lot less than the looks of repulsion and betrayal on Dean and Storm's faces should they discover what he was even considering.

Also, seeing Ruby, though he had no intent to engage with her sexually again, but still just doing _that _behind Storm's back, would feel like cheating. But would he let the fate of the world crumble because of that? He even half-considered in confiding Storm about Ruby's offer, just because she always seemed to know what to say and he hated battling this choice alone, but even as he thought it he knew it was out of the question. Though he was sure she would be alarmed at the concept, Storm would certainly be more apt to hear him out versus Dean. But he couldn't bring himself to face her expression of horror, confusion, and worry. This was a weight he knew was meant for him, and him alone. Though wouldn't it be worse keeping it as a secret only for her and Dean to find out later?

_But what ifI **am **the only one? Just as long they were alive, them and billions of other people. The demon blood has to be justified at the end, just as long as the outcome is saving the world. And if I'm the only one who can do it—_

The Ruby inside his head gave a low laugh as twisted as her smile.

_Look who's finally getting it, brainiac._

Sam actually thought he was going to be sick. He splashed more water on his face, head bowed over the sink basin. He raised it slowly as a sound tickled his ears. He stared at the door where a sound like white noise was coming from. He turned off the lights and exited the bathroom. The room was completely confined to darkness, apart from the TV which was emitting static. It flicked off, then on again. Its ominous weak light showered over Storm, who was shifting restlessly. He sat down beside her, studying her face. There was a shine of sweat along her brow, which was narrowed.

"Storm?" he said uneasily, figuring that she was having a nightmare. She didn't respond to his touch when he squeezed the ends of her fingers, but her breathing was picking up. The TV started to flick on and off more vigorously. Sam watched as her chest started to rise and fall more rapidly, and a small shot of panic struck his heart as he shook her with more vigor. "Storm. Storm. Hey. Wake up."

With movement too quick for the human eye, she gripped his wrist, hard enough for the bones to grind under her fingers, yet she was still asleep. Sam instinctively tugged back, and she released him at once, eyes rolling rapidly behind her lids.

"Storm . . . ! Wake up, come on. You've—"

"_Sam?"_

It was Storm's voice, but her lips never moved. The sound was unmistakably coming from the TV behind him. He stared at it over his shoulder, still gripping Storm's shoulders. For a moment, just a moment, within the fuzz of white noise and static, he thought he could make out something that looked bizarrely like a tree, or a forest.

Storm screamed. The sound seemed to tear the walls of his ears. He ducked as the light above flashed on before exploding, the shards falling over him.

_Not again._

_Come back, Storm._

_Come back._

.

There was a sound like a thousand explosions setting off at once, and Storm dropped hard to her knees, sure that her own terror had killed her. But she could feel the pain where the dirt and rocks had cut into her palms and knees, a sheer sign she was still alive. Wisps of hair were matted to the sides of her face, her lungs unable to keep up with the fierce pounding of her heart. She could feel her body trying to wake up, but somewhere out there, there was someone/thing keeping her here.

And this place . . . it was scary. Scary in the way a child might be afraid of the dark. It was no heavenly field filled with flowers and birds. She seemed to be in a small clearing in the center of a silhouetted forest, the trees nothing but black cutouts, reminding her ridiculously of play props. It wasn't night or day, hot nor cold, but the air was sticky, thick like water, the atmosphere obscured by a yellowish green swamp light. The woods were alive with almost human sounding whispers.

White beams stretched across the acid-green sky like searchlights. Storm knew they were looking for her.

"_Storm!_"

The voice neither seemed close nor distant, and in her panic Storm's first instinct was to run away from it. But she couldn't move. The ground had turned to quicksand, already swallowing her up to her shins. She gripped for a tree root, but it turned into a giant centipede under her fingers.

"What—!" she choked, watching the thing wriggle out of sight.

A strong hand gripped her forearm and Storm only got a flash of blue eyes before she was being tugged from the soiled earth. The mud didn't seem to want to let her go, which acted as a bizarre sort of vacuum implanted in the ground. She could hear the exertion in Castiel's breath as he pulled so hard on her arms she felt her skin was going to slip right off the muscle. Finally, with a disgusting sound like a plunger being resurfaced from a sink, Storm fell forward onto solid ground, steadied by Castiel's firm hand on her shoulder.

"Cas—!" Storm panted, unsure whether to be relieved or not. "Where—"

"Run. Now."

Storm hesitated a fraction of a second, her pulse skyrocketing but making her spring into action. She bolted, jumping over a fallen tree, narrowly missing the searchlight beam. She was really wishing her hair was cut short as it was flying in all directions of her vision, getting caught in gnarly branches that seemed to have fingers.

Every angle of the woods looked exactly the same and forward never seemed to end. Storm thought it highly unfair that she was dreaming but still felt the stitch in her side and that her lungs seemed to be failing her. She still ran, her saliva dripping like water from her mouth.

Abruptly, she hit something hard. That something had materialized from nowhere and was now tugging her behind a tree. The bark was ice-cold. Sweat trickled in the lines of wrinkles between her furrowed brows as she stared up at Castiel, who hovered over her, unspeaking and seemingly waiting. Storm didn't dare breathe; she thought she could hear that searchlight move menacingly, and closed her eyes momentarily. When she opened them, Castiel was staring down at her.

"Are you—alright?" Castiel asked her, almost awkwardly.

She nodded once and replied automatically "Are you?"

He frowned. "Yes."

"Where are we?" she said quietly, but voice steady.

"In his attempt to find you, Uriel has set out traps in the dream realm in hopes you'll fall into one when you're unconscious. This is one of them."

"Huh . . ." she said, almost matter of factly. It was the only sound she could permit. The concept that Uriel had the power to reach her in her sleep was extremely disturbing and terrifying. "And . . . okay, so does that mean he can find me wherever I am? Where my physical self is?"

"Possibly," said Castiel shortly. He considered, and then corrected himself grudgingly, "Probably."

Storm swallowed her questions and licked her lips. "Then I need to get out of here. Now." She glanced around, as though expecting to see a red exit sign hanging somewhere. "How do I do that?"

"Uriel made his traps so you can't wake. Not easily."

Storm's frown deepened. She wanted to ask him how he knew she was here and how he found her, but she bit back the inquiry, having more pressing matters to settle. "You can't just abracadabra me out of here?"

Castiel's lips were a thin line, casting another long and wary look over his shoulder. "He knows you are here somewhere, and he made sure that his traps are secured tight. If I were to abracada—" He cut himself off, frowning again. " . . . teleport you back to your body, it would make it obvious that I was here. Or, in the least, that you had assistance from an angel."

Storm studied him closely. "Who's side are you on?"

Castiel looked down at her with the same speculative stare she was fixing him with. "The matter is not so simple."

"But you still try to help me."

Castiel appeared to be battling an inner conflict. "A feat that places me in the risk of death every day."

"Well I need to know now whether you're still willing to take that risk," said Storm, a little sharply. "Because if not, I have to find a way out of here now. I don't know what Uriel or Heaven want with me, but you do, and I don't think you like it."

Castiel suddenly gripped her elbow, meeting her eyes fiercely. "Never assume you know me or Heaven. You underestimate their power and you overestimate my loyalty to you."

Storm curled her fingers, digging her nails into her palm, remaining still as she stared into his gaze. "Then why are you here?"

He released her harshly.

After a long silence, she said, "Help me, or don't. But you have to decide who you're working for. If what you said was true about me not able to wake up . . . well, I probably can't do it on my own. If you're not here to help me, I don't understand why you came."

They met eyes for a long time, and just as Storm was convinced he wasn't going to say anything at all, he took her wrist firmly and brought his face close to hers, speaking in a quietly gruff voice, as though afraid of eavesdroppers. "Transporting you out of here will not be an easy feat, even for me. Uriel's security ensures that. You will need to work equal effort on teleporting yourself out of here. You have done it before."

"Yeah," she said absently, unsticking the strands of hair plastered to her sweaty forehead. "But you said every time I use my powers—that I have higher risk of going insane."

"You do."

Storm expected him to add something else, and when he did not she took that into understanding it was either that or wait here to be found by Uriel. She took a shaky breath and nodded slowly. She couldn't stop herself from asking, "Will you be alright?"

Castiel looked a little bemused at the question, his brows coming tighter together. "You should be more worried about yourself. Using the amount of power you need to get out of here, it's unpredictable what could happen to your body."

The tangled branches feet above their heads lit up by the beam of light, and the pair of them crouched down low to the ground.

"It's either that, or stay here?" The statement transitioned into a question, and Castiel nodded once. "Okay . . ." Storm's heart was beating so hard it seemed determined to rip itself from her chest. "Okay."

"Now, Storm." He extended a hand for hers. "When you wake, _do not go back to sleep._" Storm nodded again and took his hand. A surge immediately waved through her, locking her every bone in place, making her spine as straight as a billboard. Her nerves went fuzzy—it was the only way she could describe it. Like billions of little legs of electricity were crawling all over her skin, ticklish as feathers. She closed her eyes and focused, focused so hard that a vein started pumping furiously in her temple. Her brain, it . . .

_Flexed._

Again, the best way she could describe it, close, but not entirely accurate. She could feel herself on the brink of fading in and out from this horrible place, fighting to return to her sleeping body in the motel, back in Wyoming where they had traveled to after the hunt in Sioux City. Then she was falling up through black nothingness, but she dared not open her eyes in fear of losing concentration.

Then came the pain, and Storm was certain if she was in a physical body her head would have exploded from the force of it. It felt as though a tidal wave had crashed her head upon a rock, or that her brain was a pincushion to a thousand needles. The pleasant legs of electricity that had been dancing across her skin were suddenly white-hot knives carving into her flesh.

And though Storm knew it was coming, that horrible voice of a throat filled with too much phlegm protruding from the darkness stabbed her a lot deeper than the bodysuit of knives.

"_Scream little birdy."_

Then the explosion of memories surged across her vision like some weirdly ultra sped up film, too fast for her to make any sense out of it.

And still, somehow, she could feel Castiel's presence, guiding her away from the horror and pain. Storm felt, if she had a physical hand to squeeze, that he would do so comfortingly.

It gave her the courage she needed to reach the other side.

.

There was an earthquake happening in Red Moon Motel. In room 203, cracks were splitting the walls in two, the lamps were flickering like dizzying strobe lights, and the furniture was repeatedly being lifted feet from the ground and then crashing back down.

Sam couldn't even get his shouts to be heard over the banging and crashing, the television that kept switching channels furiously before it eventually burst into flames. Storm was seizing, head lolling dangerously on her shoulders, face visibly dripping with sweat. He reached forward to grip her wrist, but was rebounded several feet backward and hit the wall hard, shouting in pain as he gripped his throbbing hand. It was though he had clenched a 10,000 watt electrical fence. It turned purple and swollen before his eyes.

The door banged open, revealing a panicked Dean whose gaze darted from Sam and his pumping fist to the seizing Storm. There were other voices in the hallway, frightened voices who were demanding what the ruckus was about.

"No, don't—don't touch her!" Sam managed to shout through his shock as Dean reached a hand for Storm's arm. The brothers abruptly fell to ground as the vanity mirror trembled and then exploded, sending lethal reflecting shards their way. One got Dean on the back of his hand, but he didn't so much as blink at the pain as scarlet dripped from the wound.

"Need to get her outta here!" Dean shouted back.

Sam was staggering to get to his feet, clutching his injured hand and still struggling to stand steadily due to the shaking floor. Storm's seizing was ceasing, but to his sheer horror, he saw that thick blood was oozing from the Storm's nose, ears, and the corners of her eyes.

"Come on," he said to Dean as took position on one side of the bed, gripping the sheets from under Storm's body, indicating his brother to do the same. Together, they pulled her into a sort of hammock stretcher. Sam's hand continued to throb and sting, but he gripped the sheets harder than ever as he and Dean carried her out of the room and into the hallway and down the stairs, ignoring the crowd of people shouting after them.

Dean was too panicked for him to argue about Sam jumping in the backseat with Storm, so he just gunned it out of the parking lot and grunted, "Where we goin'?"

"Hospital."

"You sure that's really—"

"You know anywhere else to go?"

Dean didn't, but he gripped the steering wheel fiercely as he glanced at his brother in the rear view mirror. "What the hell happened back there?"

"She was shifting around in her sleep, thought she was having a nightmare. Didn't wake up when I tried, then started seizing." Sam dared himself to touch her forehead with the backs of his fingers. She was no longer emitting shock waves, but she was hot, very clammy. He held the side of her head, saying urgently, "Storm?" She mumbled a language of her own creation, eyes rolling violently behind her pale lids, but not opening. Not even an eyelash twitched. Her lips moved soundlessly, then nothing at all. She went completely limp, as though every bone had suddenly broke in her body. Sam checked for a pulse, was petrified when he didn't feel one, but then relief spiked through him when he felt a very faint and weak pump against his fingers.

"Dean. Floor it. Now." Sam's voice cracked on the last word.

Rain was starting to fall heavily on the windshield, thick _tap taps _that eventually drowned out into one loud chorus of violent pounding.

.

The last time Sam had carried Storm into a hospital during a thunderstorm, he had her labeled as 'white haired dove girl' in his head. He hadn't known her, but wanted her to live. Now, three years later, she was Storm, His Storm, and needed her to live.

Despite knowing the dire situation, the nurse had to practically rip her from his arms to place her on the stretcher. Sam watched with Dean at his side as she was rolled off down the hallway and toward the ER, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead as she passed under each one. Dried blood was smeared all over her face, and her complexion a sickly gray, having no flush of life whatsoever. Sam didn't even look away when the double doors slammed on her and the team of doctors and nurses surrounding her. He forgot what feeling was until Dean gripped his shoulder and gave him the little shake he needed to come into consciousness again.

As far as Sam could tell, he still had a body, but it was numb and his brain was completely empty of thought. It was good that Dean led him into the lobby because he probably would have just stood in the middle of the hallway staring at the double doors all night. But he had second thoughts when he saw a deck of Uno cards on one of the tables, which stirred painful reminiscence in his stomach.

He sat in one of the stiff cushioned chairs, only vaguely aware of his right hand still throbbing, as if it had been run over by a car. The tips of his fingers, which were swollen purple and bruised, felt like they were about to pop.

"Probably should get someone to look at that," said Dean. He sounded like he was speaking from the end of a very long and echoing tunnel. "Looks like you stuck it a hornet's nest."

Sam absently massaged his puffy knuckles. He was unable to make a fist and it hurt to try.

"She could have done a lot worse," he said quietly.

"An' that makes you feel better?" said Dean with raised brows.

Sam's throat was very dry. He stood up. "I'm gonna go . . ." and he mumbled something about getting a drink.

He stood in front of the soda machine, digging his hands in his pockets, but withdrawing nothing but a few pennies, a nickel, a dime, and pieces of lint. He was nose to nose with his own reflection in the glass, his breath obscuring it. He stared at the coke a few inches from his face and sighed out his nose, swallowing hard.

It was Storm's third time having an episode in her sleep. He was trying to think of what this meant, but then wasn't sure he wanted to.

A helpful passing nurse noted his swollen hand and offered him an ice pack. Sam accepted, and the frozen thing immediately eased the throbbing burn.

"You piss off a bunch of bees or something?" asked the nurse with a nervous laugh, straightening the front of his scrubs.

When Sam returned to the lobby, he found that Dean was the only one there, sitting with his legs crossed, resting a magazine on his knee. He glanced up at the drinkless Sam, clearing his throat and shaking his magazine into place. But Sam noticed he seemed to be reading the same lines over again, just to appear busy. He sat down beside him, leaning his head back on the wall and peering sideways to read the clock that indicated it was almost five in the morning. He was sick to his stomach, wiping his uninjured hand down his face and massaged his eyes that were aching in their sockets.

"No one came by and gave you an update, did they?" Sam asked Dean without much hope, but mainly to distract him from his thoughts.

"No." Dean rolled the magazine into a tight tube, tapping it on his knee. He cleared his throat as a long silence settled between them. "You know what I'm gonna say, Sam."

"No, I don't," said Sam flatly, with no desire to hear it. He withdrew his face from his hand and glanced at his brother, whose eyes were on his injured hand, which Sam was still nursing with the ice pack. "Listen, Dean . . ." Sam let out a tired and exasperated laugh, gazing up at the ceiling. "Whatever it is, can't you just . . ." He grit his teeth, closing his eyes and giving a small shake of his head.

Dean tapped the magazine on his leg. He shook his head, picking at spot on the side of his nose. "Three times, Sam. You can't ignore that." He scratched at the dried blood of his own wounded hand.

Sam's eyes opened slowly, but they saw nothing. "What are you trying to say?"

"That your taste in women is probably gonna be the death of you." That hit a sore point in Sam, and apparently Dean seemed to sense that because he added, "Look, Sammy . . . sorry. You didn't deser—" Dean licked his lips anxiously, clenching and unclenching his fist. "Just—it's been on my mind for a while."

"_What's _been on your mind for a while?" Sam demanded.

"You know that more than anybody I wish you could just . . . y'know, have a hand-holding, mushy gushy, chicky flicky—"

"A relationship?" Sam said with raised brows.

"Well, yeah. But you know as well as I do how this could end. We don't want another . . ." Dean was thinking of Jess and Madison, and he could tell Sam knew that, because when he spoke next his voice was thick.

"We don't know anything, Dean."

"Yeah, we sure as hell do!" said Dean angrily, just refraining himself from slamming his fist on the table. "She almost just took down an entire motel! And before that he started a fire in her sleep. If you hadn't woken up, or the exit was blocked, if no one got out in time, or if the—"

"But none of that happened!" Sam said, loud enough for several nurses behind the desk to glance over. "Storm's never hurt anyone, and Uriel could have started that fire himself, making her think she did it."

"Never hurt anyone?" Dean nodded harshly down at his hand and Sam nearly hissed through his teeth in irritation. "The point is that we don't know, Sam. Danger follows her 'round like locusts. And I wish—I wish to God it wasn't her. I do. I really do. But she's unpredictable, Sammy—"

"Dean," interrupted Sam through clenched teeth. Dean was making him feel like a child who hadn't a clue what the real world was about, or that he didn't know how to make decisions. "What are you even suggesting? Leave her on the side of the road? Hand her over to Heaven? Kill her?" Dean didn't answer and Sam laughed coldly, the sound making the hairs on Dean's forearms stand up. "Even if we weren't involved, I'd never do that to her. I don't get how _you _could."

"I never said that I would!" snapped Dean. "Dammit, Sam. All I'm gettin' at is that Heaven jammed her up with a crap load of unpredictable power, and now apparently her sanity has an expiration date. I'm not just worried about you, but what the hell do you think's gonna happen when we have a loose circuit yoked up on angel-demon mojo runnin' around? I mean, do you really see a fairytale ending here?"

Sam honestly considered punching Dean, and didn't care very much that at least five people were staring at them. But Sam realized this was only because Dean was saying the things Sam feared aloud. Fiery anger seemed to catapult out of his stomach and sear his throat, a sick kind of hopelessness rotting in his gut.

Sam shook his head, grinding his molars together, pausing a moment before he made to get to his feet.

"Sam—"

"You think I don't know how this could end?" Sam demanded shortly, his voice quiet, but icy fury crawling in his every syllable. "Off chance the world's gonna topple in over us before we even make a decision. But—Storm's never been anything but innocent. She never asked any of this to happen to her. So she at least deserves a chance for us to figure out how to control her ability and stop her from going mad. I'm not saying it's gonna work, Dean, I'm saying we gotta try before labeling her a nutcase and throwing her file in the gutter."

Dean mouthed wordlessly as he tried to come up with a retort, but Sam was already walking away.

"Sam!" Dean grated furiously, getting to his feet and gripping his brother by the shoulder, halting him in his tracks. "Look at me, dammit." He didn't, but Dean went on anyway. "You know I'm only lookin' out for you and—and I don't know what the hell I'm sayin' we should do. But neither of us have any idea where to start in helpin' her. I don't want you gettin' any more hurt than you need to when the off chance is is that this is gonna end violent and bloody."

Sam looked him in the eyes. The brothers stared each other down longer than necessary, up until Sam said, with a tone that was meant to cut, "No matter what we do it ends violent and bloody. You told me that."

His words made Dean's grip on him slacken, enough for Sam to shrug off his hand and walk away, leaving a fuming Dean standing there alone in the hallway.

.

Storm woke up wishing she hadn't. Reality was heavy and cold, filled with stiff mattresses and mechanical beeping. She was gazing at the dark room through her eyelashes, checking if there was anyone in there with her before opening her eyes fully. She took in the sight of the room, at the IV hooked into her forearm, not remembering what she had done to end up in the hospital. The beeping noise was coming from a large and intimidating machine, displaying her heart rate. Her nostrils were tickling and she reached up to find a cannula stuffed into her nose, feeding her oxygen.

Storm hated hospitals. The scent of rubber and antiseptic was unpleasantly familiar, uncovering memories of her life when she had been most confused and hateful toward herself, not knowing who or what she was.

She made to sit upright, but found that her entire body was sore, as if she had been used as a punching bag by The Rock. She sunk back into the hard mattress, eyes wandering the abstract designs of the ceiling.

The last thing she remembered . . . falling through nothingness as she attempted to escape Uriel's trap. But though her eyes had been closed and she was practically unconscious, she remembered hearing the brothers' shouts of panic as she had whatever fit she had. They had been in the backseat of the Impala, Sam had been whispering her name, and after that, everything was truly black.

Even after being unconscious for however long, she was exhausted, but remembered what Castiel had told her about staying awake.

As she thought his name, she sensed his presence. She chewed off some dead skin on her lower lip, tasting blood.

"I thought I was untraceable." Her voice a thick croak that cracked the silence.

He was seated in one of the chairs close to her bed, hunched over with elbows on knees, staring up at her. She could barely see his face due to it being half swallowed by shadow.

"You have my blood inside you.".

"Why do I have your blood inside me?"

"Your powers had to come from somewhere."

Storm swallowed. There was a disgusting acidic-aspirin flavor in her mouth. "Why did Heaven need to fill up a little girl with your blood?"

She sensed rather than saw his unease. She really wanted to tell him to go away and never come back if all he was going to do was act mysterious and refuse to answer questions. But,

"I don't know."

Storm had to shift her upper body a little in order to see him fully. It hurt her face even to frown, and she imagined she was purple and bruised from the forehead down. She studied his face hard, looking for any sign of untruthfulness.

"You don't know?"

Even in the dark, Castiel's eyes were the brightest thing in the room. "I was never informed of Heaven's intentions with you."

"Who gave you the orders? God?" She wasn't serious, but Castiel said, "No, there's only a select handful of angels that have ever spoken directly to God."

"I don't understand how you could have taken a girl from her family, have her tortured for twenty years, and not know why you're doing it."

"Because to disobey orders is to commit treason."

"Not taking me back to Heaven, helping me . . . I bet that's also treason."

Castiel didn't answer.

"What happened after we left that place?" she asked. "It just went all dark and there was . . ." Pain. Lots of pain. ". . . how did I end up in the hospital?"

"Uriel made sure his trap wasn't easy to escape. Using the required power to get out of there drained you considerably. Using your abilities, as you know, has its consequences. Short and long term. You're lucky you're still alive."

"But what happened?"

"The building almost caved in on you, and everyone in it. When your body endured the stress of using the powers it cannot confine, they lashed out randomly."

"Sam, Dean," said Storm at once, almost cutting over him. "Are they alright?"

Castiel considered her. "Yes." He paused and then added, "Sam made the mistake of touching you during your fit. His hand got stung."

"I . . . stung Sam?" said Storm blankly, unable to stop imagining herself with a giant scorpion's tail, unconscious and lashing out at the brothers. "I hurt him?"

"It was a minor injury."

But as Storm knew, minor always turned to major.

"He's never gonna stop, is he?" said Storm after a long pause. "Uriel."

Castiel broke their gaze, eyes scanning up and down the room, along the display of threatening machinery. "No." Then, after another thick strew of silence: "I doubt Uriel's reasoning for claiming you has very little to do with Heaven's desires anymore. Your defiance and rebellion has made this hunt personal to him. You're making him look like a fool."

"Good." It was all Storm could do not to spit the word.

"He'll want you tortured at his hand."

"If he ever catches up to me, you mean."

"It would be unwise to be cocky. You just barely managed to get out of his trap alive. And now that you have escaped from his jaws yet again, he will be determined to catch you now more than ever. Fear is sometimes necessary. It will keep you on your toes."

"Do you want to know what I do fear?" They met eyes. "That with every passing day, I'm going to lose a bit of control. It's a bit, just a bit—every day. But over time it becomes larger, and the gaps in my brain get bigger. The flashbacks become more vivid, more painful. I lose touch with reality. I go insane. Eventually I'm going to snap, and the person closest to me explodes. Maybe Sam, or Dean, maybe the clerk a the grocery store, or the concierge at the motel. It has to start with someone. Then the world's next, and I'll just be a mindless, dumb, uncontrollable zombie dynamite." She swallowed hard again. "Can you deny that that's gonna happen if I keep on living?"

Castiel just stared at her. She had always seen him being quiet, uneasy, and hesitant, but this was perhaps the first time she had ever seen him at a loss for words.

Storm almost laughed. "I like living. Now I do. Before Sam and Dean, I was just . . . coping. But I like riding in the Impala for ten hours at a time. I like listening to Dean sing along to his absurd rock an' roll, and how he can't hit the high notes. I like being on hunts and doing research. I like being with Sam, when we get breakfast together or watch a stupid guy movie on the television, which I pretend to enjoy but really just like the chance to cuddle with him on the couch. I like how sweet he is, or when he tells me I'm beautiful, because he was the first person to tell me that. He doesn't deserve any of this, not someone who can potentially kill him in her sleep . . ."

Storm didn't know she was talking to anymore, or why she was saying any of this. She just knew, with realization that stung, that she felt like she was saying goodbye to these things as she said them.

"But," she went on, a thickness in her tone that made her voice unrecognizable to her, "it doesn't matter. None of it. I'm not going to stay with them knowing the danger I impose on their lives. But I can't go with you to Heaven when they'll just use me as their weapon for whatever reason." She looked into the angel's eyes, and the angel into hers. He wished he had never seen her on that river bank, that she was still with her family, her life filled with memories of being kissed and hugged by her parents, of being in school with normal boys and girls, maybe someday having a husband and family of her own, and the only time she ever thought about angels was when she prayed to them at night.

Everything, as they both knew, was his fault. It had been he who deemed her to be the Athedas, he who plucked her from her life those many years ago and made all of those things impossible. But if he hadn't chosen her, it just would have been some other poor unfortunate child, and perhaps they wouldn't have survived the experiments as Storm had.

Still, he had stolen Lily from her, whoever that might have ended up being if he hadn't interfered.

Castiel watched her eyes shine before a solitary tear slipped out the corner of her eye, falling quickly down her cheek, off her chin and onto the blanket.

"Tell me what to do because I—I don't know," she said, her words nothing more than breath in the air. "I don't know what to do anymore."

Castiel didn't either. But he didn't want to tell her that, yet not because of pride or comfort, but because he didn't think he could stand to face the disappointment in her eyes. He wanted to touch her, counsel her, wipe away the trail that one tear left, but it would be overstepping his grounds. More so, he wasn't sure how to properly counsel someone and didn't want to say or do the wrong thing.

He couldn't tell whether or not she could clearly read his feelings on his face, but whatever she thought, she was now saying, "How long do you think it'll take?" She closed her eyes and added unnecessarily, "Until my sanity runs out, I mean."

"It depends."

"On?"

"How much you use your power. If you quit using it entirely I would estimate . . . a year. Maybe two."

"That's a wide estimation."

"You were the first experiment and the first to fail, so there is no telling how long it will be."

"And you have no idea if there's any way of stopping it? Or turning me back human?"

"No."

Storm opened her eyes, staring at the wall opposite her. "But even until my year or two is up, incidents like this are still going to happen, and Uriel's still going to be looking for me, torturing and killing anyone who gets in his way."

"Yes."

Her gaze flickered to his. "Your brutal honesty would make you a very unpopular dad. Luckily, I'm kind of counting on it."

.

Much to Sam's dismay and irritation, the doctors wouldn't allow Sam to visit Storm until late the following evening. Dean, who had been dozing on and off in his chair, mumbled something about how Sam should go in himself. Sam was still angry with him, so he didn't respond and followed the lead of the nurse. Storm was in a heated argument with one of the doctors, which could heard at the other end of the hallway.

". . . coming _here? _Why can't I just leave with them now? I'm fine."

"Miss, uh . . ."

"I don't have a surname."

"Um . . . well as your vitals appear to be in perfect condition, we're still not sure if you're stable enough to leave the hospital just yet. Just a few more tests."

"I don't need anymore tests," said Storm stubbornly, just as Sam appeared in the doorway. Her eyes immediately found him, staring at him over the doctor's shoulder. Apprehension seemed to sink into her features as they gazed at each other. Sam expected her to give him her Storm smile, but she merely stared at him. The doctor spun on the spot to look at Sam.

"Right. Well . . . I'll talk it over with Dr. Fletcher," he murmured with half a glance at Storm over his shoulder. He gave a noncommittal nod to Sam as he passed him, leaving them alone.

Sam took in the sight of her. She appeared at least ten years older, her hair having more shine than her eyes which were heavy and glazed. At first glance, one might assume she was punched in both eyes, but the dark shadows of exhaustion were just that prominent. Her complexion was still the sickly gray it had been twenty-four hours ago, except maybe a shade greener. Indeed, it looked as though she was fighting the urge to vomit.

Her eyes were on his bandaged hand and she closed her eyes briefly, breathed out unsteadily, and opened them to stare back up at him.

"I'm okay," he said quickly, picking up her thought process at once. He sat next to her on the bed. "We both are." He leaned forward to plant a kiss hard on top of her head. Storm's eyes closed at his touch. "Are you?"

He looked down at her. She offered him that smile he had been looking for, but far from reassuring him, it seemed to make her features all the more hollow, too forced.

"I have a remote control bed that goes up and down, sideways and diagonal. I'm fantastic."

"Seriously."

"Sam . . ." She held his injured hand gently in her own, as if it was a butterfly. She placed a gentle kiss to his knuckles, but he didn't feel it due to the wrappings. "This could have been so much worse. I could have killed you."

"You didn't," he said, not oblivious to the fact that she didn't answer his question.

"It's the 'could have' that scares me."

"Storm, I told you we'll find a way through this. We'll figure it out." Sam heard the passion in his own voice. It made his cheeks hot and his throat a little dry.

Storm shifted herself into a sitting position, grimacing as she did so. She held his hand to her heart, bowing her head as she leaned it against his shoulder. Her eyes were closed again, nose pressed up against his shirt so as to get drunk off his scent. It brought forth that sense of safety, a feeling that suggested that if they just sat here together for eternity, that nothing bad could ever happen to them, no one could reach them.

"Do you wanna tell me what happened?" he asked quietly.

She breathed out, caressing circles on the back of his hand. "Uriel just proved how far he would go to get me back." She hadn't slept for twenty-four hours, but she knew the second she eventually fell unconscious she risked falling into one of his traps again. She wasn't sure if she had the strength, power, or sanity it took to escape a second time. As Castiel had made it clear, because she hadn't been 'finished' up there, her body could not handle the power infused into her, so each time it was used, a bit more of her brain was affected.

How could she ask Sam to stick by her side any longer?

"What did he do?" said Sam sharply, looking abruptly down at her.

"I'm okay now." It was the first time she ever lied to him, and it made her feel sick. When he opened his mouth to protest, she shook her head gently, biting her lip. "Lay with me?" she said softly.

Sam frowned at her, wiping away a few strands from her face. He laid back on the mattress, positioning himself behind her with her back pressed against his chest. Her white hair seemed to be everywhere. He combed his fingers through the length of it, starting at the scalp and then continuing down to the ends. It seemed unable to get tangles. It felt like what he imagined a cloud to feel like, but strong, almost like a bundle of extraordinarily thin strips of feather-soft steel. When he held the entire lock of it in his palm, it was as heavy as a small pistol. There was definitely something unnatural about it. There seemed to be ticklish flickers of electricity on his fingers as he ran them through the length of her mane.

They just lay there in prolonged silence, Sam mutely grooming her hair, and Storm closing her eyes to thoroughly enjoy the sensation, pleasurable shivers riding up and down her nerves. She had his free hand, the injured one, secured over her stomach, mimicking his soft touch as she drew feather-light designs along his forearm.

Storm didn't know she could feel peace like this, especially in a hospital, amidst chaos. She never wanted it to end. The sacrifice of this tranquility would be one of the hardest things she had ever done. She wasn't sure she was brave enough to do it, if she had the courage to open her mouth. It was just so easy to stay silent and lie here with Sam, be happy with him, pretend nothing was wrong. So easy.

"Sam Winchester," she said quietly, but Sam had been so immersed in their comfortable silence that he almost jumped. He held her tighter against him to show that he was listening, burying his face in her hair and nuzzling the back of her neck. Storm licked her lips, staring at the other side of the room and squeezing Sam's forearm, but she didn't say anything.

"Storm?"

She couldn't be worried about such petty things as being bold now. She breathed in and out quietly, then turned to face him over her shoulder. Their noses nudged, and their eyes searched each other's for a few long moments. They were so close that Sam could feel the movement of her lips on his as she spoke.

"I'm falling in love with you," she said, proud at how steady her voice was because her pounding heart was threatening to explode. She searched his expression for any indication of his thoughts, but he just stared at her silently, a small gathering of wrinkles between his brow. She swallowed again and went on, "Maybe I already am. I don't know. I've never loved anyone before. I haven't been around long enough to know what that means, and maybe I'm not even supposed to be saying this now. I mean it's not like we've known each other all that lo—" She cut off mid ramble, shaking her head and meeting his gaze determinately. "But Sam, I . . . I know I am. Heaven may have taken everything away from me but not my feelings, and I know how to listen to them. And I know what I feel about you."

Sam resumed the combing of her hair, still fixing her with a small frown. Any other time, Sam would have returned the confession, and he _did _feel the same as her, but something about the way she was saying it scared him. Almost rushed, like she didn't think there would be time to say these things later.

"Storm—"

"Let me finish please," she said, sounding a little choked. "I rehearsed this all of last night in my head and you'll screw me up if you interrupt."

Sam wanted to laugh, but the humor was overshadowed by the sudden morbidity dwelling in her gaze. He stayed silent.

"I want to believe that we can figure out everything together," she continued, voice a waver from a whisper. "But we both know neither of us know where to start. And within the time we're on this pointless race to find something we don't know how to find, we risk incidents like last night, incidents like the fire, whether I was the one to start it or not. We risk yours and Dean's life, anyone who happens to be around me. You know that," she added sharply when Sam showed signs of interrupting. "And as much as I want there to be a magical solution to pop up last minute, there's not, and I'm not gonna risk your life while on the hunt for the Holy Grail."

"It's not like that!" said Sam, truly unable to stop himself as with a sinking feeling, he finally understood what she was getting at. He propped himself up one elbow, gazing down at her incredulously. "It's not that impossible. We just need to look harder. We'll—we'll find _something._" Even to Sam, the words sounded like desperate excuses, but he believed in them. "Don't you think I know what I signed up for? The risks—they don't mater. Not to me. I told you since the beginning that I'd be here to help you through everything. I'm no gonna let you do this on your own."

Storm had been expecting the denial, but it didn't make it any less painful. "All it takes one slip, Sam."

"I don't care."

"I do."

"We're—I'm not gonna leave you."

Storm blinked violently and her jaw locked. Sam easily recognized the signs in which someone fought the urge to cry. You blink rapidly, clench your teeth, look at the ceiling, swallow hard, then slowly meet the other's eye. She kept his stare for a while, the room so quiet Sam thought he could hear his heart pounding against his ribcage.

"It's me who's doing the leaving, Sam."

Sam gripped her wrist as though expecting her float away from him then and there. Opposed to his heart pounding violently, it seemed to fail and turn brittle at her words. His voice had briefly deserted him, throat turning hot, clenching and unclenching. His eyes fell shut, he swallowed, then opened them. The tips of Storm's fingers were on his cheek.

"I did the ritual knowing the danger that there would be consequences, and there were. By the end of this year or the next, I'll become insane and uncontrollable. I'm going to try and find the solution, but away from the people I care most about. Since the day I first met you, since my first day on earth, you've been saving me, being strong and having the faith in me I didn't have in myself. So Sam, please, _please—_let me be strong for you, too."

Sam leaned forward a little, his hand holding the side of her head, fingers tangling in her hair. He shook his head, not exactly in protest, but a mere hopeless gesture. "Where would you go?"

"Anna."

The idea had came to her last night while on the brink of unconsciousness. A long time ago, what seemed forever, Anna had offered her a place by her side, and Storm was sure that offer still stood. They were both outlaws from Heaven and had a better chance at survival if they hid together. Meanwhile, Anna could help keep her in check, aid her in her search for a solution to insanity, and was far less to be harmed by her potential lashes of power than Sam or Dean.

It was a horrible concept, living a life of exile, but as long as the brothers were safe it didn't matter.

"When?" Sam got out. It felt like someone had poured sand down his throat.

Storm interlaced her fingers with his, squeezing hard. "Tomorrow. I would have gone sooner but I . . . wanted to see you first."

Sam wanted to refuse her words, declare that he simply would not accept her leave. That he was perfectly capable of handling himself, that she imposed no real danger, that they were in this together since the beginning and that he wouldn't let her face this alone. But if he was honest with himself, and he really didn't want to be, the simple fact of the matter was that he just didn't want to be away from her. He felt selfish and childish thinking it.

_But that's the way it's always been, _an unknown voice reverberated in his head. Definitely not his own, and yet it spoke knowingly, like a real voice in his ear. _Love's not exactly an astute adult whose got their shit together. More like a bawling infant who pumps its fists and continues on wailing 'till it gets what it wants. _

"We're gonna get through it," said Sam finally, his voice a little croaky. "I'm gonna keep researching on this end. Then once we find out what to do, I'm gonna find you, or you find me, and we'll fix everything." His eyes were a little wide as he stared down at her, thumb caressing light circles along her cheek. "We're gonna get through it."

It was just a simple turn in her lips, but with the merest twitch of a smile, Storm's entire face brightened. "I love it when you talk encouragement to me."

"I mean it."

Her smile faltered a little, but she didn't look exactly sad. "But I don't know how far away that could be. Right now, we just have one night, so let's make it forever."

They stared at each other a moment longer before lips met. Then, a second later, Sam withdrew just an inch, caressing her bottom lip with his thumb. Their stare lasted several eternities, up until he said, just as quietly, "I do, too."

It was completely out of context, yet Sam knew she knew what he was talking about. He couldn't bring himself to exactly say the 'L' word, because to do so would make their goodbye real, absolute.

She curled her fingers in his hair, then her hand gently fell to hold the side of his face. "I know you do." She narrowed her eyes a little and swallowed. "I know you do." She pressed her lips to his knuckles, clenching her burning eyes shut as she did so. Then, slowly, she lifted her face to his. She was grinning, eyes shining, voice choked again. "Continue kissing me, please. I think I'm finally getting good at it."

They held onto each other as if wanting to fuse together, fingers entangling in one another's hair. Sam tasted the salt of her tears that fell into their deep kiss, his own burning behind his clenched eyelids. He erased tomorrow from his mind, allowing himself nothing more than to be utterly present with Storm, letting everything about her intoxicate him senseless. Her scent, her touch, the taste of her on his tongue.

_Ultimately selfish, juvenile in its desires, reckless in its actions. Yet it's a good thing. If we were all truly afraid of the pain that came with love, why would anyone bother fighting for it? _

_'Cause pain doesn't ordinarily feel this good._


	16. Broken Wing

**I've just now realized that I truly have no concept of time because I almost had a heart attack when I saw how long it's been since I've updated. Sincerest apologies about that.**

**I do hope you like this chapter because it really kicked me in my nonexistent balls.**

**Enjoy.**

-_Sixteen-_

Broken Wing

The undeniable foul whiff of cigarette smoke seeped its way in menacing tendrils from the back alley. From a man who leaned against the brick wall beside the door of a dodgy-looking bar, raincoat hunched high up on his shoulders so it looked like he had no neck. The cigarette was packed in the corner of his mouth, the red ember glowing in the dark like a single demonic eye. Both it and the man seemed to stare after Sam as he strode by, stepping in a shallow puddle and soaking his pant leg, but he took no notice.

The odious scent of smoke seemed to be trailing him, and all Sam could think of was that time when he was nine and Bernie Garret offered him a smoke in the boys bathroom. Dad found out, because Dad always found out everything. He didn't think his rear had ever been the same since. But Dad let Dean drink beer since he was thirteen, probably would have even let him smoke if Dean ever showed the desire. But not Sammy, because he was the _baby._

Sam halted at the curb. He looked both ways. Mist drifted above the shining roads in such thick clouds that it obscured fifteen feet in front of him. But no cars. The street lamp above him was flickering ominously, the only sound being its failing _fzzt, fzzt. _

He checked his phone, though he had done so only five minutes previously. Still, when saw he had no messages, he felt his heart deflate with disappointment. He took his time in constructing a brief text, so immersed in thought he forgot he was cold.

He and Storm had promised to keep in touch, but any further goodbyes were avoided. Goodbyes were painful and final. He had no idea when they would see each other again, and thinking about it buried salt in the wound.

Something flaming was burrowed in Sam's stomach, a flickering desperate need to be distracted, to forget just a smidgen of the hollowness that was making him feel so miserable. He had to _do _something, some sort of progression, something that helped them in the long run. Solving cases wouldn't save the world, and he _hated _sitting on his ass when the people he loved were in danger. And while he did that, he was just getting weaker every day.

He was just raising the phone to his ear when two headlights shined through the fog, attached to a car that was growing marginally closer. It braked silently before him. For a moment, Sam stared into his own reflection in the passenger window before it rolled down. He was already gripping for the wet door handle, sliding into the seat and shutting the door, staring straight ahead through the windshield, the raindrops on the glass casting spotted shadows across his face.

"What made you change your mind?" Ruby asked him.

Sam massaged his knuckles, staring down in his lap before snapping, "Does it matter?"

Ruby shifted gears, accelerating them slowly out of the streetlamp's flickering glare, into such impenetrable darkness that he could only see where the headlights shone.

"No. It doesn't."

.

Forty-seven hours.

Hallucinations.

God she hated coffee.

Disgusting murky black stuff that tasted like chalk.

A million voices that droned on for hours.

So. Damn. Cold.

The veil of Heaven never this thin.

It was killing her.

She was slouched in a plastic fold up chair, purposefully in an uncomfortable position, plucking out a hair every time her head started to droop, using the pain to wake her. There was a thin pile of hairs at her feet. When she ripped a strand from her skull, she watched it cascade from moon-white to mousy brown, something she never knew happened. It had been mildly entertaining to watch about fifty hairs ago.

She couldn't stop shaking. The tips of her everything were stinging with frigidness. She had forgotten the feel of solid, and her purple fingers could no longer make a fist. Her teeth were chattering so violently she thought it a great possibility they would shatter into pieces. The only good thing about any of this, Storm told herself, was that it made it harder to sleep. Still, she was so tired she was sure she could be buck naked in an Antarctica blizzard and slumber like a baby. If exhaustion didn't take her, hypothermia surely would.

It was hard not to think of a heated motel room, tucked under the covers with Sam, cozied by their combined body heat.

Now she was trying to listen what Anna was saying over the woman in the corner. She wore great denim overalls that struggled to fit around her large backside, frizzy brown hair tied back in a loose bun, threatening to break its hair tie, kind motherly face. "Blueberry or apple pie, Lily?"she asked Storm. Storm squeezed her eyes shut, then opened them.

"Storm." Anna squeezed her forearm, glancing over her shoulder at something that wasn't there. "What are you seeing?"

"Noth—" Storm was so tired it was exhausting just moving her mouth. Slowly, her eyes drifted back onto Anna's wary face.

"You need to find a way to get some sleep," said Anna.

It was hard to hear her over the woman's merry rambling, "Lilypad always wants the apple pie. Go upstairs and tell your brother it'll be ready in twenty minutes."

It was a bit terrifying. Storm knew she wasn't really there, but she couldn't tell if she was hallucinating because of lack of sleep, or that she had already lost her mind. She gazed at her in that sickeningly curious way that made you peek through your fingers during a scary part in a horror movie.

"If you go on like this, you're going to drop dead. Or make the roof cave in on us." Anna shook Storm's shoulder, who slapped a palm to her forehead to keep it from lolling.

There were a million little legs crawling up and down her arms; bugs, a million bugs. _Hallucinations. _Unlike now, earlier she hadn't been as successful in resisting the urge to scratch. Her nails had broken the skin from itching so hard, her arms painted with violent lines of crimson red. Her fingers twitched to itch again, but Anna folded her hands over them.

"You need to sleep."

"The phone did something earlier," said Storm. She sounded drunk, slurred. She was desperate to stop listening to the woman, who was humming what sounded like a nursery rhyme of sorts. She gave a strong swallow, lifting a vague finger in the general direction of the phone on the cart. "Text? Sam text or something?"

"Yes."

Anna handed her the phone. Storm gazed at the screen, watching the words duplicate, go in and out of focus, spiral off the screen like serpents. She knuckled her eyes, digging deep, trying to awaken sense. "What does it say?"

"They have a case down in Bedford, Iowa," Anna read. "He wants to know how you're doing. Says—he misses you."

Storm felt grief strangle her insides, but she managed a smile. Her throat and sinuses were prickly and hot. She swallowed again, brushing her hair from her temples and readjusting herself in her chair. She held out her hand, mutely asking for the phone.

"Can you . . .?" Anna trailed off doubtfully.

"Give it here." Anna handed her the phone. Storm managed to word her reply just under a minute, covering the basics; 'I'm fine' 'Stay safe' 'I miss you too'. She pressed 'send', then tightened the cell under her grasp, biting absently on the blunt antenna.

She could feel Anna's cautious gaze on her, but she was staring at the pie-baking woman who was now wearing oven mitts, still humming. There was no actual oven in the one-room shack she and Anna were hidden away in in the middle of some Massachusetts forest, but she could still smell that baking pie, and having nothing but coffee and a few spoonfuls of peanut butter in the past three days, her saliva turned as thin as water, threatening to waterfall down her chin.

The cabin was old, run-down, and abandoned. The sides of the roof bent inward, the windows so obscure with grime and age that not even the thick beam of moonlight could penetrate it. Every window was painted with blood-colored angel repellent sigils. Anna only set up one cot, despite Storm saying she wouldn't sleep. The only source of illumination was the dull beam from the electric lantern placed on a wooden cart in the center of the room, occasionally attracting a fluttering moth. In its glow, Anna and Storm's breath came out in thick blueish clouds.

"I don't get how I'm still is able to get cold," Storm said, pouring herself another mug of coffee from the tea kettle Anna kept magically boiling. She clung to the hot mug for dear life, swallowing the gross liquid, not caring that it burned the roof of her mouth. According to Anna, it was impossible to heat up the place with an angelic zap because her powers had been affected since she had been detached from Heaven.

Anna's smile barely surfaced underneath the concern she was still fixing Storm with, but she still said in a stern tone, "You're not going to avoid what I just said. You need to sleep. The state that you're in, it's important you're at your strongest."

"I can't risk Uriel finding me. Finding us."

"The rate that you're going, he's going to anyway. His—these traps of his. I've never heard of anything more horrible or ingenious. He must have opened some sort of doorway to another plain or dimension, somehow linking your unconscious self to them. But you're weakening yourself, and you're going to have to sleep eventually, and if you _do _fall into one of these traps, you're not going to be strong enough to pull yourself out again."

Storm watched the woman take pies out of an invisible oven. She blinked. The woman was gone.

She looked back at Anna. "Getting out of them costs too much of my power, my sanity. I can't risk it, period."

"What if I . . . guided you?"

"Guided me?"

"Yes. Like a feeling stick, or something. I'd stay with you while you rest, dive into your unconscious, poke around, feel for any of those traps, steer you clear of them."

"There's no guarantee that would actually work."

"No."

Storm tried to weigh the options, but in her exhausted state it was like trying to break the water's surface with anvils chained to her ankles. Castiel had said, now that she had escaped Uriel yet again, he would be desperate more than ever to get his paws on her. He would more than likely enhance his security, making it easier for Storm to fall into a trap. But she had to sleep _eventually, _as Anna said. She could only fight it for so long until she finally collapsed, and in the meantime she was draining herself of what little precious energy she had left.

The woman was gone, but her humming still drifted eerily in the air, thin and vague, like the ghost-like hum that followed a ringing bell.

She was going to go insane trying to fight insanity.

"Try for an hour," said Storm, and her words immediately made her heart twist with trepidation. "If it goes okay . . . we can go for longer. But," she added quickly as Anna got to her feet, "you know what to do if things get out of hand."

Anna gazed at her, and though Storm knew angels didn't sleep, she thought she looked rather tired. Anna nodded; once up, once down, then back to the center. A gesture of bitter comprehension.

Overexertion mixed with her frigid bones made Storm feel like a very old woman when she tried to walk. She was numb all the way through, struggling to heave herself from the chair and shuffle the few feet that was between her and the cot. She fell onto it clumsily. Anna took her hand before sliding it up her arm to rest on her shoulder, applying pressure, gently easing her onto her back. Storm blinked up at her, not even recalling the blissful relief of her head hitting the pillow before unconscious snatched her, like an eagerly awaiting snare.

Anna was kneeling before the head of the bed, her fingers placed over Storm's temples, eyes closed. She felt herself click to her unconsciousness, being pulled down, down, down into that thing she dimly recalled as sleep. And those traps were there, oh yes. They burned like giant fireflies, scattered across the black nothingness like ghostly-green glowing whirlpools, waiting to be treaded upon, beckoning the innocent flies.

It was like trying to steer a ship with no sails across a minefield. Anna was convinced that if she wasn't here to guide Storm, that she would have immediately been sucked down into once of those ominous whirlpools that promised terror. Never had she hated Uriel so much, wanted him dead, wanted to do it by her own hand, make it as bloody as possible.

Anna breathed out heavily, a severe crease of wrinkles between her brows. Stay calm. She needed to stay calm.

An hour passed uneventfully. Anna woke Storm up just to respect her word, though she was sure it wasn't necessary. She didn't have her eyes open for five seconds before she was asleep again.

Two hours.

Three.

Anna was beginning to feel nauseous; something she had been sure she would never feel again. The process was grueling and draining.

Six hours.

At first light, Anna woke Storm, sure she herself was going to pass out if she didn't stop now. Eyes glued shut with crust, Storm blindly shifted into a sitting position, slouching as she made herself a mug of coffee. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, gripped her friend's shoulder, and thanked her.

They packed up the little amount of their belongings within ten minutes, exiting into the chilly New England dawn. The sky was just transitioning from an icy periwinkle to violet lined with orange. Frost-kissed grass crunched beneath their feet as they made their way up the small hill. They were about ten miles from a small fishing village, one that was bound to have at least one warm and comfy bed and breakfast, but Anna insisted it was important to keep as much off the map as possible.

They did stop at a family owned diner and ordered a breakfast sandwich and orange juice for Storm to go. They stopped at a deserted rest area while she ate. With her belly full and having gotten at least eight hours of sleep, she was feeling better than she had in a long time. Having found a way to sleep safely gave her a trickle of hope she was afraid to feel, but it warmed her nonetheless.

It was two weeks of this, two weeks of traveling state to state, camping out, monitored sleep schedules, checking in with the brothers, getting a phone call in to Sam whenever Storm could get the chance. Between him and Dean busy with cases, the obscure campsites that Anna picked out not having any service, or having low phone battery life, it was a little challenging getting a hold of him. Maybe once every other day they would have a good long conversation.

On the morning of November 21st, Storm got a call from Sam telling her that Pamela had been killed by a demon. Storm hadn't gotten to know her that well, but she still felt a monumental ache in her stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. They were on the phone for two hours as he explained everything, right up until Storm's phone died. Pamela had helped Anna out a great deal, so together she and Storm bought a bottle of whiskey (though Storm could hardly stand the stuff) and drank in her honor. Storm went to bed under a bridge that night, feeling even colder on the inside opposed to the outside.

It was important to switch states every night, Anna had told Storm, and that they stay nowhere obvious, nowhere that had any eyes. It made the adventure too much like an adventure. Within the first week of their journey, they bought a cheap tent that could just fit both of them comfortably. It had been so long since Storm had had a decent shower that she felt like she had been dipped in a bucket of sweat and rolled in dust.

When the rising sun had finally burned away the remaining wisps of morning mist, Anna announced, to Storm's surprise, they would be heading for a place in Canada called Maiville.

"I don't have a passport," said Storm stupidly without thinking, and immediately felt embarrassed. "That shouldn't have slipped out. I'm just tired."

"Luckily there's no angel teleportation police," Anna smiled.

"Why Canada?"

"No particular reason. It's better to choose our locations at complete random."

Anna gripped Storm's hand and then she was experiencing that disorienting sensation of spinning rapidly before being forced through a tube. They were near a rocky riverbank, in complete wilderness, under the ominous shadow of naked gnarly trees whose branches were powdered with snow. At least beneath them the ground was mostly bare. In the distance, the snow-coated mountains sat as silhouettes against the cloudy sky. Their breath came out in white puffs as they appraised their surroundings, then looked at each other.

"Couldn't we exile to the Caribbean together?" said Storm. "I mean I wasn't expecting to be staying at five star hotels every night, but my butt will freeze off by tomorrow."

"Help me with a fire."

As Storm wandered the length of the countryside on the hunt for dry firewood, she checked her cell phone, which was getting dangerously low on battery; she had only been able to charge it for about thirty minutes at that diner. She only had one bar. She tried to call Sam, it didn't go through, and when she moved around until she got a second, only the answering machine picked up. She left a message explaining that it might be awhile until she could charge the phone, but said she was fine, hoped that his case was going alright, and that she missed him. A lot.

Anna had a fire going in no time. Storm huddled by it as close as she could be without burning, her arms wrapped around her knees, gazing into the dancing flames. She wore Sam's gray sweatshirt with the hood drawn over her head, the sleeves useless and floppy. They took their time pitching the tent. By midday she was already hungry. She divulged into their low food supplies, carving out the last spoonfuls of Skippy peanut butter and munching on a leaf of floppy lettuce. It did nothing but make her hungrier.

Automatically Storm kept checking her phone, each time forgetting it was dead, and each time feeling the cool sink of disappointment in her stomach. As she sat on the riverbank, tossing heavy stones into the water's surface with a satisfying PLUNK that was just heard over the heavy currents, she had never before felt so strongly that she truly was an outcast, some kind of criminal on the run from the law. She thought about Castiel, and found herself truly hoping that he was okay, that his actions in helping her yet again hadn't gotten him punished. It occurred to her she probably should have been a lot angrier with him than she was; he was the one who chose her as the Athedas, took her from her family, confined her to nineteen years of long torture. Was it the 'bond' that numbed her rage, the fact that they shared blood? Or was it the fact that Castiel seemed like an innocent dog that had been trained by a psychopathic owner?

Storm heard the shift of rocks behind her and half-turned her head, but not looking at Anna. It was maybe a little naïve of her to assume the angel would have some idea of how to stop her from losing her mind, but it seemed she always knew what to say or always had something up her sleeve. It had been impossible not to feel disappointed when Anna told her that her guess was as good as hers, but she would help her every step of the way.

"How's it going in there?" Anna asked, crouching beside Storm and taking a rock in her hand, turning it over in her fingers.

"A lot quieter when I actually got some sleep. I still hear the angels a lot more than I ever have before that ritual."

"Any more of those flashbacks?"

Storm hesitated. "Sometimes. Sometimes it's only sounds, or words," _scream little birdy, _"sometimes . . ." Sometimes it was a shock of incredulous pain that cast all vision from her eyes, often making her forget where she was or what she was doing at the time. Impossible to pass off as her simply zoning out. It wasn't the pain that scared her, though. The more she had these flashbacks the more it seemed her mind was slowly untwisting, releasing the insanity she knew slumbered deep within her. Waiting.

"It would have been better if we never did that ritual," said Anna, a sting of guilt in her voice.

Storm rested her chin on her knees, staring out into the white-water currents, a chilly breeze nipping at her nose. There was no use in denying it, but she was tired of dwelling in the world of 'what if's'. "You told me there'd be risks. I still went along with it. There's nothing we can do to change it, so we just—have to figure out what to do with what's on our plate right now."

Storm glanced sideways at Anna in time to see her press her lips together, gaze cast upward at the dark clouds that were moving menacingly in on them. "I was just thinking," Anna started slowly. "Now it may be impossible, I have no idea—to somehow transfuse your power out of you into something else, like that dove."

Storm faced her fully now, not daring to feel hope.

"It's just a theory," went on Anna. "But the reason you'll eventually lose your mind is because you're an unfinished experiment that can't contain the power they gave you. If that power were to be taken away . . . theoretically, it solves the problem. It's sort of what I did with my grace. But I don't know where we would start, or if the process would take away all your memories again—or kill you."

"Still outweighs the option of turning crazy on the world."

"It's still just a theory."

Storm nodded automatically.

By the time a light snow flurry started falling around them, the girls retired into the tent, Storm being bundled up in a sleeping bag and watching the wind batter against the thin walls. Her body was decently warm, apart from the tips of her toes, fingers, and nose. It was only about two in the afternoon, but the atmosphere was already shaded with heavy violet, and Anna was only a vague silhouette beside her.

Storm couldn't help but feel a little juvenile when she said in a small voice, as though afraid to break the silence, "Anna?"

Anna turned her head toward Storm, studying her anxious face for a moment before saying, "Yeah?"

Storm ran her tongue along her bottom lip, unable to fight the blood that rushed to her cheeks. "How do you . . . I mean . . ." She self-consciously ran her fingers through her hair, puffing out her cheeks as she exhaled. "I've never had sex before."

To Anna's credit, she didn't laugh. She did smile a little, but it was empathetic. "So it wasn't just a good guess that you and Sam were a thing?"

Storm curled her toes in a mingle of embarrassment and pleasure.

"I know there's a pressure for your first time to be perfect," went on Anna, "that you're afraid you'll do something wrong. But you've got to know by now Sam isn't the type of man that expects anything more from you than to be yourself."

"I know, it's just—"

Immediately picking up on Storm's thinking process, Anna interrupted, "There's no real technique to it, Storm. No specific guidelines. If you're really connected to the person you're doing it with, it comes naturally." There was a slight pause, then she added, "Y'know. Literally."

Storm snorted with laughter. The corners of her lips ached as though they were not used to being lifted. When silence settled between them again, Storm listened to the crickets mingling in with the wind outside, the mournful call of some bird. She picked at some dirt wedged under her fingernails.

"I don't even know when I'll see him again." She refused to to use 'if' instead of 'when'. "It's kind of incredible how long he's stayed with me. After everything. I'm just . . ." She cleared her throat.

"What?"

It seemed churlish to say what was really on Storm's mind. "Nothing."

"Storm."

She turned to see that Anna was on her side, supported by her elbow, eyebrows raised. Of course, she knew Anna wouldn't judge her for speaking her mind, yet she she licked her lips anxiously again.

"I'm terrified of how everything's gonna end."

Anna studied Storm's face for a half a minute or so, her brows dropping into a thoughtful frown. "We all are."

.

Storm woke a little after dawn. They didn't have any sleeping pads so her back was sore and aching from the rocks and twigs that had been under the tent. As she exited into the early morning, the sun was just barely creeping above the purple-silhouetted mountains. She cracked her back, arms high above her head and shaking her hair from her face. They were out of firewood again, so Storm offered to go fetch some.

The tall grass was drenched with dew as Storm progressed through it, soaking through her jeans in spots. She was shivering, her chattery breath puffing out in thick fog. She came to a clearing surrounded by white-bark trees. The wilted flowers were weighed with frost, twinkling like diamond-coated things in the dull light. The sun was struggling to penetrate the dense clouds to no avail, settling an ominous gray atmosphere. It was snowing again, just a light flurry, falling like white lace around Storm. She took a moment to stand there, breathing in the fresh cool air that pooled into her lungs.

She hadn't found much firewood; the snow had rendered most of it damp and useless. She was just making her way to a promising-looking log when there was a sudden squeaking noise that made her tense, painfully on the alert for anything Uriel-shaped. She did a full 360, seeing nothing, then glanced down, thinking she had stepped on a mouse. At first she saw nothing, but as she shifted aside some grass, she saw a small writhing black-fluffy-something that at first she thought was a rat. Not a rat or a mouse, just a baby bat. Its little left wing was flapping desperately, the right boneless and twisted. As it squeaked madly in pain, and perhaps fear at the sight of Storm, she saw its baby fangs.

At first, Storm didn't understand the sudden conflict that weighed in her chest as she stared down at the pitiful thing, deprived of its parents. But she slowly came into the understanding that if she just left it here, it would die. Either from the cold or some bigger predator. It disturbed her, made an ugly rot of pity swell in her chest. She didn't want to look at it; there was something too familiar about that helpless writhing.

Storm crouched low, her rear just grazing the damp grass. After she set aside the firewood, she bit the finger of her mitten and pulled it off. Hesitantly, she extended a finger and hovered it an inch or so above the bat, almost as though asking permission. The bat stopped squirming, staring straight up at her with unblinking beetle-black eyes. But that was ridiculous. Bats were almost totally blind. Storm ran a finger down its two inch-long spine. Its fur was fine and soft. She curled her fingers around its frail body until it lay belly-up in her palm. Opposed to its desperate wiggling before, it now seemed too petrified to move. Storm placed her thumb over its chest, feeling its tiny heart pound in terror.

Storm waited until she was sure she knew what she was doing, then slowly raised her thumb and caressed it along the broken bone of the wing. The ends of her fingers were tingling as though they had fallen asleep, that prickly static feeling. A shot of pain jabbed into Storm's temples, like two screwdrivers meeting in the center of her brain. She let out a sharp gasp that released as a streak of vapor, clenching her teeth together until she thought her jaw might break. It was so abrupt she almost missed the twitch of the bat's wing before it flapped clumsily into the air. She recovered herself fast enough to watch it flutter away, unable to surpass the wave of envy that washed through her when she thought of all that open sky.

Storm watched it until it was a black speck, then turned invisible with distance. She got to her feet, wiping the powdered snow from her knees, rubbing her temple as she collected the bundle of wood again and tucked it under her armpit, making her way back to camp. Now she had a hell of a headache, and she asked for it. She had just torn holes in the already thin veil between her and Heaven, and the angels' voices poured into her brain like her own thoughts.

But she couldn't have left it, _couldn't. _And she didn't have any idea _why. _She didn't have any idea why until she laid down to sleep that night, this time camped on the edge of a stone cliff on the border of California and Nevada. Not much warmer, but at least it wasn't snowing.

That writhing, that squirming, that helpless, youthful, frenzied squeaking that wrung out her ear drums like damp dishtowels. It reminded her too much of what she was afraid of to resorting to, some ugly thing that was planted somewhere deep within her, a weakness, and it was taking her every ounce of willpower she had not to turn that feeling inside out.

Yet it wasn't because she knew that she had to keep holding on, keep fighting that kept her from succumbing to that self-pitying miserable state of existence. It was because she knew she had no unnamable creature to stroll by and fix her broken wings.

.

The last light of dust was just fading, streams of orange and red along the horizon just transitioning to indigo, the first stars coming out.

The outline of wings stretched nearly fifteen feet each side of the fallen angel, charred into the dead grass. Castiel extended a finger, and the brittle grass crumbled under his touch into a mess of black powder.

"Goodbye, brother," he said quietly. He stood up slowly, sensing movement behind him.

"Six angels. Dead. You know what this means," Uriel told him. When Castiel didn't answer, he went on, "The only one with any means of getting the answer from Alastair as to whom is killing our brothers and sisters, is your human pet. Dean."

"There may be other means."

"You are not the one in charge anymore, Castiel," said Uriel, and there was definitely a tone of satisfaction in saying these words.

Castiel faced him. Uriel's hands were folded placidly in front of him, his expression egging on a response, maybe even a retort. But Castiel remained quiet, his gaze drifting back to the immobile angel at his feet. The stab wound in his chest was unbleeding and lipless.

"It's not only I who has witnessed you grow soft and sympathizing with those maggot-brained humans. Some—" He was smiling now. "Some even believe it's because of your interference that we do not yet have the Athedas."

Castiel met Uriel's eyes, but he still didn't say anything.

"I had her," Uriel informed him, curling his fingers into a fist to mime capture, "in my grasp. Like a bird in a snare." He was surveying Castiel with a magisterial expression on his face.

"If you have tightened your security as you say you have, you are bound to catch her again eventually," said Castiel.

Uriel studied him for the longest ten seconds, eyes finally glancing to the dead angel. When he spoke, there was no longer a trace of humor in his voice. "In the parking lot—such a narrow escape she made. She claims back her power, and all of a sudden the mark has been deactivated. She falls into the trap, she escapes unharmed."

"She's more resourceful than we anticipated."

"No. She's helpless, impulsive, young, naïve, _weak_. Hardly any different from a human. She shouldn't—_couldn't _have made it out of that trap alive—unless she had assistance from a higher source of power."

Castiel only held his dark gaze, his brows knitting together in a small frown.

"It was what we feared from the beginning—giving your blood, how this . . . whatever you wish to call it." Uriel laughed throatily. "'Bond'? How this bond of yours would affect our orders. It's why I'm in charge now, brother. And it's not only her. The brothers, _Dean. _You show too much sympathy."

Castiel took a few dangerous steps closer to Uriel, closing three feet between them. "We spent nearly twenty years on the Athedas, and we faced the conclusion that not even _we _were certain of what she could be capable of. If you are accusing me of treason, take it up with Heaven, show them what proof you have for any of this." The corner of Uriel's mouth lifted into a smile, but it looked more like a leer. "You have none. What do you think Heaven will think when you are wasting your time chasing a theory when our time should be focused on finding the Athedas?"

The following pause was filled with a thicket of prickly silence.

"Where is she?" Uriel asked.

"I don't know."

"She has your blood in her veins. You have to know."

"I don't know where she is."

They stared at each other, brown eyes into blue, each trying to read the mind behind the other's gaze. Finally, with a smile that looked in danger of cracking his face, Uriel spoke. The dark purr had returned to his voice. "Alright Castiel. I'll believe you. I'll believe you when I eventually get her back, and _oh I will. _I'll believe you when you sit idly by, watching me pluck out her feathers in front of you."

There wasn't a doubt in Castiel's mind that Uriel had every full intention of keeping that promise. They gazed at each other for a few moments longer before Uriel smiled again, bumping shoulders with Castiel as he brushed past him. Castiel heard him disappear, leaving him alone with the fallen angel and a more bitter sense of hopeless confusion than before.

.

At first, there was only red. Then, as Storm took a few steps backward, she saw that it was just a brick wall, a brick wall decorated with amateur sketchings of birds. The only thing that had brought any kind of life to her little apartment.

Storm frowned, remembering the fire, knowing she couldn't really be here, knowing it was a dream. Still, she outstretched a finger to caress one of the drawings. The lead smeared. The paper crinkled. It felt as real as life.

This couldn't have been one of Uriel's traps; he was too focused on Storm's discomfort and pain. He wouldn't have her fall into the place she once called home. Though when she turned to face the rest of the apartment, there he was, sitting on the black leather couch Sam had once slept on. She had found the old thing abandoned on the curb, and although it was torn in some places it was still in relatively good shape.

"Kind of a dump, isn't it?" said Uriel conversationally.

A horrible burning smell crawled up her nostrils, and her eyes flickered to the TV that was casually on fire in the corner, gross-smelling smoke rising in tendrils.

"Your experiments didn't give me any life insurance. I was pretty dirt-poor," said Storm. The _X-Men _DVD's were right where she and Sam had left them.

Uriel smiled at her, as though he appreciated the joke. "Lately you've been a tough cookie to get a hold of. Especially with that walking blasphemy poking around in your unconscious. You must get a little tired of having so many people inside your head." Uriel crossed his legs, resting his intertwined fingers on his knee and continuing to smile up at her.

Storm did not respond.

"You've won over Anna, you've won over the Winchesters, you've even won over my own brother because of this connection you share," continued Uriel. "Valuable allies. You've made this task that much more difficult than I could have ever foreseen. But, as you know, it has to end."

Storm glanced back at the drawings. Uriel raised his thick eyebrows. "What, no snappy comeback? No questions?"

"You just sort of. . . take a long time to get to the chase."

Uriel's upper lip twitched as if to curl into a leer, but he forced it into an imperious smile. "We'll kill them. Both of them."

Storm looked at him, into his eyes, and felt her blood turn ten below zero.

"You don't think we will," Uriel said, sniffing out her fear and feeding off it. His smile widened until it looked almost demented. "As long as you stay alive, slowly going insane, you'll kill them anyway. You'll kill everyone. Meanwhile, you're selfish with your life, knowing the threat you hold over the world. If you're really the hero you're hopelessly trying to be, isn't self sacrifice the way to go? Haven't you learned anything from the Winchesters?"

"You made me into a weapon," said Storm, her voice as calm as Uriel's, but internally she was shaking with rage. She faced him fully now. "You can't tell me that whatever you wanted to use me for was in hopes for world peace."

"For the greater good, birdy. For the greater good." He tapped his thumbs together. "It must be exhausting pretending to be stronger than you really are. Running a race that has no finish line. Fighting for a relationship that has no hope. A virgin birdy chasing a boy who casually screws a demon whore on the side."

"You tell me how strong I am, Uriel," she said, fury burning in her throat, "you're still eating my dust, aren't you?"

For the first time, Uriel looked angry. He was on his feet now, and he was a lot taller than Storm so it was easy for him to look down at her with authority. The smell of smoke suddenly intensified, and somewhere within the fume of flames, Storm caught that horrible hair-raising stench of burning feathers.

"We're in Cheyenne, Wyoming. If you're not there by six o'clock in the evening tomorrow, I'll make sure we save a piece of Sam Winchester for you to cry over."

Just as Storm felt flames licking at her sides, her eyes opened to stare at the pointed ceiling of the tent. She had an upside down view of Anna who was just slowly removing her fingers from Storm's temples.

"I tried to get you out of there sooner," Anna said.

Storm felt like she had just fallen from an airborne plane. She shifted into a sitting position, not meeting Anna's pressing stare. "Did you hear any of that?"

"Bits."

Neither of them said anything. They listened to the wind battering against their fragile shelter, howling like a monster demanding entry. Storm's heart was pounding so hard she thought it might affect her ability to speak. She swallowed, covering her eyes with her hand, bullying her murky brain into concentrating.

The Winchesters seemed too important to the angels that they could just kill them, but was Storm's confidence in that strong enough that she would call Uriel's bluff? Yet if she surrendered herself, she still didn't know what Heaven wanted with a weapon like her, and who was there to tell how many people would die then? If she did nothing, Sam and Dean might be killed and she would still go insane. People would still die.

Storm felt, and she almost wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it, like a bird thoroughly too big for its cage. The feeling made her want to throw up and never stop. She brushed her hair out of her eyes, taking a breath that was very reluctant to go down her tight throat. She could feel Anna's gaze digging into her head.

"Storm," said Anna, and by her tone Storm knew she could tell what she was thinking. "You know you can't. You can't walk right back into their hands."

Storm didn't say anything. With her thumb she wiped away a pearl of sweat from her brow bone. She bit hard on her knuckle, bouncing her knee up and down. If Uriel was right about one thing, it was when he said all of this has to end. One way or the other.

"I have to," she said finally. They met eyes. "I'm going to kill him. Tomorrow or never."

.

Sam didn't answer his phone when Storm called him an hour later after she and Anna had packed all of their belongings. Anna said this wasn't a problem because she could easily locate him. Despite feeling nauseous, Storm tried to force down a few Saltine crackers, but they tasted like dry carpet. Her stomach was squirming in knots, but at the same time was a hollow ache of trepidation.

She found herself thinking of the flaming birdcage, wondering why Uriel had chosen such an image to torture her with. What, in his mind, did those birds represent? What did he think they meant to her? The dove had always been a mystery to her, and probably always would be, but what _made _her the little birdy?

The thing that was giving her any sense of sanity was knowing that she was going to see Sam, for however long it lasted, if it lasted at all. She was down to her last option. Uriel was never going to let her go and if he went to the lengths of killing the people she loved, the answer finally seemed clear. She couldn't count on Castiel to be there for her for this, and even more so, she was sure at this point it would be asking too much. If she managed to kill Uriel, she would be free of him, not to say that Heaven wouldn't eventually send someone else for her. If she died during the attempt . . . well, that still solved her problems.

"I still think I should be the one to do it," said Anna from behind, and Storm, who had been ridiculously anxious these past few weeks, flinched. "The only thing that can kill an angel is an angel blade, and for you to use the required power to kill Uriel might take away a few months of your sanity."

"Do you have one? An angel blade?"

"No. But Uriel would have one, I think."

Storm smiled. "Am I already slipping? Is the plan to kill him just insane?"

"You're asking the person who ripped out her grace to become human. Insanity is good sometimes. Uriel is never going to stop, and from the few people I think are capable of _making _him stop, two of them are standing on this riverbank."

Storm measured her carefully. She considered telling her about the bat, but immediately decided against it without really knowing why. Later, she wouldn't even tell Sam about it.

She nodded.

Anna held out her hand for Storm to take. The girls' fingers interlaced and Storm felt all air vacate her lungs as they were sucked in that place between space and time, just for a split second, before they stood on solid ground. They were in a motel parking lot, and when Storm looked around at the huge decaying sign, she saw it was the Riverstar Motel.

She didn't need Anna's lead to tell which room was the brothers' because she could sense Sam's presence like a blipping red dot on a radar. It had only been two weeks since she saw him, but it felt like a whole season. Her throat was dry and she couldn't swallow, but her heart still pounded contentedly in her chest. She hoped she didn't smell bad and wished she had a mirror to check her hair.

She hadn't knocked on door 16 once before it opened, displaying not Sam, but a familiar dark-haired beauty Storm had only acquainted a few times. Ruby's eyes jumped right from Storm to Anna, then back. They stared at each other for a long moment.

"You're not Sam-shaped at all," said Storm finally.

"He's in the bathro—"

"Who is that?" A door could be heard opening and closing, and a moment later Sam could be seen over Ruby's shoulder. His eyes immediately found Storm, who was still just standing there, feeling like all the blood had left her feet. His expression displayed total shock. He glanced between Storm and Ruby, and something dark curtained his features, but he immediately started toward Storm. "Storm, what—"

"Like we got enough angels and angel adjacents haunting our doorstep," said Ruby, but she shifted aside so as to let him greet the others.

"Is everything okay?" Sam asked, narrowing his eyes but gripping Storm's shoulder before pulling her into a one-arm hug. Storm was expecting to fall into it, but there was something extremely unfamiliar about his touch, a vibethat was off. He seemed to sense the shiver on her skin because he withdrew, staring at her.

"Yes," she said automatically, then shook her head, eyes lingering for a moment upon Ruby then forcing herself to look at Sam. "I mean no. There's—" She looked around. Her heart was pounding audibly in her ears, this time not with content. "Where's Dean?"

Sam's lips were a hard line. He released Storm's shoulder, and she watched his hand fall limply to his side. He jerked his head inside, indicating the two to follow him. "I, uh, don't know."

"You don't know?" said Anna sharply as she shut the door behind her.

"Uriel and Castiel snagged him," said Ruby. "Something about trying to figure out why angels have been being killed."

"Why would they go to Dean for that?" asked Storm.

"No idea," said Sam. He lacked any sort of healthy flush and purple bags hung under his eyes. "Ruby, uh, she's been helping me look for him."

Storm looked at the demon again, right into her eyes. The only other time her insides had burned so badly was when Uriel set fire to her in the birdcage. In alarming contrast, her heart felt like an Antarctic glacier. Ruby stared unblinkingly back at her, and though she showed no emotion, Storm had the horrible suspicion she knew exactly what she was feeling. Her happiness at reuniting with Sam now seemed like a firework that had spit and flickered but failed to launch into the air.

"When did this happen?" asked Storm, looking back at Sam.

"A few days ago."

"Why didn't you—I would have come earlier."

"I know you would have," Sam assured her, "but I didn't want to drag you into all this, Storm. I didn't think messing with whatever you guys were doing was a good idea." His eyes were fixed seriously with hers. "But—if you guys didn't know about that, why did you come?"

"We came for Uriel, actually," said Storm. When Sam's eyebrows rose, she went on, "As long as he's around, he's going to hunt me down. Maybe he'd eventually win, bring me back to Heaven, finish whatever they started. If they did that . . . no one knows what would happen. So we need to kill him."

Looking relatively taken aback, Sam's eyes flickered between her and Anna. "How do you plan on doing that?"

"We're still working on that. Saving Dean is a priority now, though."

"Can't be hard to mingle the two," said Ruby.

"No, but—" Storm bit hard on her cheek.

"What?" said Sam quickly.

Storm didn't respond, but she looked into his eyes. There was a dimple in cheek where she was biting down. Anna's gaze felt like two headlights on the back of her head.

"Uriel held your life over Storm's head," Anna told Sam. "Yours and Dean's."

Sam's eyes darted to Storm. "No—Storm, _no way, _you can't honestly think I'd let you put your life on the line for my—"

"It has to be done either way. He could be bluffing, I don't know, but I'm not going to risk it. You know I would never risk it. I'd do it even if he didn't stick out your neck."

"And what happens if he manages to snag you and bring you back to Heaven before you can do anything?" he demanded.

"Something both of us _have _to risk," said Anna. "You've got to understand, Sam, that there's going to be a whole lotta more pain for everyone if we don't stop Uriel now. He's obsessed with capturing Storm, and he's not going to stop until he has her. If we strike now, unexpectedly, we might have a chance."

"Unexpectedly?" snorted Ruby. "He threatens Sam's life and knows you're coming to meet him, and you think he won't know you guys have something stuck up your sleeve?"

"We can't just sit on our butts either," said Storm.

"The day you say an actual swear there'll be a marching parade."

A flare of anger seemed to burn a chasm in Storm's gut. It was such an unfamiliar emotion, too, one she hadn't truly gotten to experience in her three years on earth. It made her hate to look at Ruby, made her hate to think of her and Sam in the same room together. She was taken aback at the childish impulse of wanting to keep Sam out of her view, not wanting her to even look at him. It was a sickly notion that made her insides feel ugly.

With only the knowledge of how dire the situation was, Storm bit down on the retort that was begging to be to hissed through her teeth. She closed her eyes briefly, exhaled, then opened them to stare at anywhere that wasn't Ruby. Sam was staring at the demon with narrowed eyes.

"Okay . . . then we need to come up with a new plan then," said Storm, a little hastily. "Quickly. Before six tonight."

Storm allowed herself the time to take a shower, and just as she suspected, it was the most amazing one she ever had in her life. Two week's collection of grime, grease, and sweat trickled down her body with the hot water. Her heart was still beating hard and she didn't know why, but every other minute or so, she thought she could hear that menacing scratch of a voice '_Scream little birdy' _trying to surface above her other senses.

Storm dried and dressed in the bathroom. She may have been squeaky clean now, but her clothes were stained and reeked of body odor. When she exited the bathroom, only Sam and Anna were there, seated at the table and talking strategy. They stopped when Storm entered, and from the corner of her eye she thought she saw Anna give Sam a significant look.

Next, Anna was getting to her feet and telling Storm, "I'm heading to the diner, you've gotta be starving."

"Anything but coffee. Thanks."

Anna glanced at Sam, back to Storm, gave a strained sort of worn out smile, then left the room, using her legs this time.

Storm and Sam met gazes. His muscles were tense. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists in a habit Storm didn't recognize. He licked his lips, opened them, hesitated, then shook his head slowly. "How are—" For some reason, asking how she was suddenly seemed a stupid way to open up the conversation. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Where've you been these past couple of weeks?"

"All over the place." Storm sunk into the end of the mattress, hands in her lap and staring at him. She cleared her throat and elaborated, "Mainly across the U.S. Just trying to stay out of sight."

"Did you found out anything?"

"No." Storm's hand flinched to start fiddling with the ring on her middle finger before remembering she lost it over a week ago. She had taken it off when she went to bed one night and hadn't seen it since. She rolled her shoulders back uncomfortably.

Sam glanced downward, hand squeezing his knee. He said, "Storm," just as he met her eyes again. "Ruby's just helping me find Dean. That's . . . that's all."

Storm studied him. "I know you have some sort of a past with her, Sam. Call it girl intuition or my birdy sense . . ." She cleared her throat again as though hoping to cover up for the horrible joke. Sam wasn't smiling. "But I also know you're not with her in—'that way'. Not anymore. I know you would never."

"I'm not," he said, almost cutting over her. Storm thought she could see his shirt tighten in the places his muscles locked.

"But . . . " Storm bit her lip. "There are still a lot of emotions I still don't understand. This new one makes me want to learn exorcism because I don't like Ruby. I think she has a stupid face and stupid hair."

Sam laughed in spite of himself. After a moment, he got to his feet to take the space beside her on the bed. He made no immediate action to embrace her, kiss her, or touch her in any way. He just stared into her eyes, witnessing her first smile that made his heart bleed with guilt and relief.

"I love you," she said. "I don't say it under the impression that we're 'forever', that it was love at first sight or anything. I'm still learning what the word means. I'm saying it because it's true, because I've grown in love with you, and I think you deserve to know. I'm saying it because I want you to know I trust you, I'll always care for you, and I'll always be there. You're amazing, Sam Winchester. I don't want you to forget it."

Sam could only gaze at her for a few seconds. Then, he reached for her wrist, squeezing it gently, not realizing how strongly he had been aching for her touch until met with the real thing. But he released her almost at once. He didn't deserve her touch, and he most certainly didn't deserve her words. Guilt seemed gnarl its way to every dark corner of his insides. His next inhaled breath felt too big for his lungs. He shook his head again.

"You're the only one, Storm," he told her.

She placed her fingers over his, bowing her head. If she was a little taller, or Sam a little shorter, their foreheads would have touched, but it rested against his chin instead. He slid his hand across her lower back, massaging up and down along her spine. He nosed aside her hair, nuzzling her temple and closing his eyes as they sat in silence.

"I would have chosen any other time to have this talk, but I really felt like we needed to have it," she said finally, lifting her head to look at him. "Especially since we don't know what's going to happen in the next few hours. But we can't waste anymore time."

"We need to find Dean," Sam agreed.

"And Anna, or I, need to kill Uriel. And I don't want to hear how you're not going to 'let' me. It needs to happen, and it'll provide enough distraction for you to get to Dean."

Sam breathed out heavily. Fear was prickling in his finger tips. "And how are you going to get out of using your powers? Do you even know if you can kill an angel?"

"I think I can. I'm going to do what I have to."

Sam didn't like the sound of that. He measured her face steadily, trying to decipher any of her emotions. All he got from her expression was that he would not be able to alter her decision no matter what he said.

But he was scared. Scared that his time with her could be limited to hours, scared for the future, terrified of his dishonesty, of where it would land them in the long run—if there was a long run to be had after tonight.

What lightened his heart with a smidgen of hope was the faith he had in Storm and knowing that she wouldn't tumble into a battle if she didn't know what she was doing.

He pulled her close and tight against him, diving his hand into her hair, pressing his lips to her forehead, staying there a long while. "I love you. I love you, too."

Storm wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight tight tight, face in his shoulder as she closed her eyes. She breathed in his safe scent, hoping to take the courage it gave her into the dark unknown she was about to tread.

.

Uriel wanted to be found, which made it painfully easy to locate him. Castiel's blood inside Storm granted her the ability to sense other angels' presence, and from what she could tell they were both hiding out in a deserted location just out of town. Grasping Storm and Sam's hand, Anna teleported them outside of an abandoned warehouse. It had a rectangular face of gray brick and broken windows. The front entrance had no doors and was placed in the direct center, looking like a gaping mouth. The building looked like it was starving.

The days were shorter this time of year. It was five-thirty in the evening and almost completely black out. The atmosphere had a sort of eerie anticipation, like there were things lurking in the shadows, waiting for someone to tread within arm's reach.

Storm kept on rehearsing the plan over and over in her head, as if thinking about it hard enough would make it easier.

A few hours ago, she had fought the urge to come to this place alone, but stupidity and impulsiveness were luxuries she couldn't afford. She couldn't save Dean and kill Uriel on her own, yet this ongoing battle between her and the angel was becoming just as personal to her as it was to him.

In the moments the three of them stared in silence at the building, Anna said, very quietly, "Once more . . . everyone got the plan?"

"I'll be looking for Dean," said Sam.

"And if you run into any trouble, I'll be there," said Ruby, appearing from thin air behind him.

They all looked at Storm.

"Storm?" said Anna.

"Yeah."

"You with us?"

"If I can't get the angel blade from Uriel, I'll have to resort to whatever angel-killing abracadabra they stuck me with," said Storm. Out of all times for her heart rate to decrease, it remained placid behind her ribcage, as though the concept of killing Uriel brought forth a great sense of calmness. Her mind was sharp with concentration as she gazed into the foreboding entrance of the building.

The back of Sam's hand brushed hers, but he did not seize it.

Anna was to find Castiel and distract him if need be; they were still on the fence as to whom he would aid in the end and they couldn't risk him interfering.

Storm exhaled out her nostrils. The breath escaped as two streaks of vapor. "Okay, let's—"

_**GET OUT OF THIS PLACE NOW!**_

The voice charged through Storm's skull like a mingle of hellfire and lightning. She clenched her teeth together, almost sinking to her knees as she slammed a palm to her forehead, a dribble of spit oozing from her lips from her attempt to keep in her scream. Her forehead stung with the eruption of sweat and her temples were pounding terribly.

Castiel's voice, his _real _voice, warning her to go back.

"Storm?" demanded Sam and Anna, but she shook her head at once, wiping the sweat from her brow bone. If Castiel sensed they were here, Uriel probably did, too. But what difference did it make? He knew she would be coming the second he hovered Sam's life over her head.

"Let's go."

Unable to conquer the feeling that they were plunging right into the monster's mouth, the four of them entered the building.

* * *

**If writer's block had fists, I'd look like an eggplant. **

**I really hope you've enjoyed this chapter and thank you so much for reading.**

**All feedback is appreciated.**


	17. Just a Game

**You guys are the best for being so patient with me. I'm being overwhelmed by life right now, from the good and bad things, but still trying to keep my story game strong. To make up for my absence, I have provided an especially long chapter.**

**Enjoooy.**

_-Seventeen-_

Just a Game

Glass cracked underneath Storm's sneaker as she passed the threshold. It scattered across the cement floor, lifeless, with no light to reflect. The windows it had shattered from still had broken shards, sticking out like jagged teeth.

She took in a breath; the air made her lungs shiver. It smelled damp. Their combined footsteps barely echoed off the far-apart walls. It was a lonely sound. She glanced in Sam's general direction and couldn't make out his expression, yet his silhouette gave her a reassuring nod. Her throat clenched as her eyes maneuvered toward Anna who was taking the lead.

"Sam," Anna breathed, so quietly there was barely a wisp of fog before her lips, "Dean's on the far end of the building, third floor, the door at the end of the west hall . . . There's someone with him."

"Alastair," Sam murmured.

"Where's Cas and Uri?" asked Ruby.

"They're here—I don't know where."

Storm advanced a few steps forward, walking heel-first to make her footsteps mute. She halted before a window, glancing out at the sky. Wind blew the snow clouds aside, uncovering the half-moon, casting silvery light upon her face. Chilly air fanned her cheeks. She turned away, glancing down the seemingly endless shadowed corridor.

She cautiously approached the double doors, dead leaves crackling under her feet as she poked her head in, seeing nothing. Grasping the cold metal doorframe, she whispered to the others over her shoulder, "Uriel wants me to find him. He's not going to stay in the dark forever."

Nobody answered her.

Storm bit her cheek, curling her fingers into a fist as she glanced behind her, doing a double a take when she didn't see anyone there. Something empty and cold sunk into her stomach when she turned to face the empty hallway where Sam, Anna, and Ruby had stood seconds previously. The door was no longer there, either. The hairs on the back of her neck seemed to be trying to depart from her skin.

She opened her mouth to call Anna's name, then closed it, swallowing heavily. Her fingertips were prickly with fear and her heart was pounding almost rhythmically in her ears. She turned to stare at the other end of the corridor, the one that led deeper into the building.

Uriel wanted to be totally and utterly sure he had her, and only her, all to himself.

Storm wasn't sure if this thought was one of her own or if placed in her brain by Uriel. Either way, she knew it to be true.

She progressed forward. She couldn't see anything, only corner-of-your-eye things that your mind tricked you with. All she could hear were her footsteps against the cement, the occasional crunch of a dead leaf, and her own shortened breath that seemed abnormally loud in this confined space.

"I thought we were done with games," said Storm, and she was relieved at how steady she could make her voice as it echoed around her, despite the trepidation brewing in her stomach. "I thought you wanted to get this over with."

Again, no one replied. Storm wet her lips. She stopped walking, turning her head slowly and almost screamed, a shattering sound soon following. A figure stood no more than three feet to her right, gazing directly into her eyes. It was a millisecond of utter terror until Storm realized she was staring into her own reflection. An askew full body mirror hung from a rusty nail on the wall. It seemed her moment of fear had lashed out physically, lightning cracks spreading the length of the glass so she was looking at a hundred mini alarmed Storms.

She felt foolish and outwitted and her heart was pounding so hard now she thought the muscle might tear. Something coppery went down her throat as she swallowed. She breathed in invisible courage and started a more determined stride forward.

At the end of the hallway where the shadows finally thinned, Storm was met with another pair of double doors. She raised her hand, hesitated with it suspended in mid-air, then checked for the gun's bulge in the inner pocket of her jacket, withdrawing it. She pressed her palm flat against the freezing metal of the left door and pushed. It swung open eagerly, squeaking and groaning with every inch outward, alarming a violent chorus of echoes throughout the enormous empty room Storm now faced.

She saw now that this place used to be a sort of factory; rows and rows of rolling belts lined the length of the room, some cardboard boxes upturned and forgotten. The room itself was not unlike the size of a cathedral, and a vague bluish tint hung in the air. It seemed so much colder in here than even outside.

Uriel was not trying to hide; she could sense him just as strongly as she could feel the chill on her skin. Yet she heard him before seeing.

"Maybe you _have_ learned a thing or two from Winchester Thing One and Thing Two."

Because of the size of the room, Uriel's voice rang out like a disembodied voice, impossible to tell where it was coming from. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold crawled under Storm's skin.

"I think the games are your favorite part," she said quietly.

"They are," Uriel's voice responded, and this time it did not drift; it came from directly behind Storm. She turned to see him standing in front of the doors she had just entered, guarding the only exit. He wore no set expression, not even a vague smile, but his eyes lit with something Storm could only identify as greed. Her heart was far less jumpy at suddenly seeing Uriel opposed to her reflection, which made her want to laugh, yet her veins were still shivery with fear.

"But not all of it is just a game," he told her, maybe in the most serious tone she had ever heard him speak to her with. His eyes lingered on hers for a few moments before falling slowly to the gun she held in her hand. "So you do have a sense of humor? I like that."

Storm's fingers had a sweaty but firm hold over the gun's handle. She didn't want to do this; she didn't want to have The Speech before the battle. She just wanted to initiate the fight and find out who dies already.

"Or would you honestly assume that a gun, a _human _invention, can kill me?" said Uriel.

Storm took a few backward paces, her jaw locked and forehead a mass prickle of cold sweat. He watched her with calm, collected, narrowing eyes. She halted a good ten feet from him. Without taking her eyes from Uriel's, she readied the pistol as the brothers had taught her, gripped the handle until her knuckles cascaded from pink to white, and raised the gun to her own temple.

Uriel's face seemed to deflate, and the excited greed that had been sparkling in his eyes was cast over with a shadow of uncertainty, almost confusion.

"Do it," he said. "We'll just bring you back."

"Can you," said Storm, without question in her voice. "Maybe a human. But you've had angels dying all around you, right? Why haven't you brought them back? Something about angels that when they die, they stay dead? I think I've been jacked up with enough of your angelic cogs to make me harder to bring back."

"You think you're special? We can find someone, _anyone _to be the Athedas. You're disposable."

"If that were true, you would have found somebody else by now. And even if you did, that's another twenty-plus years, if they survive your experiments. Can you risk that much of a delay?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

"Well Castiel didn't pick you for your brains."

Storm swallowed a searing lump in her throat. "The Athedas is a weapon, _I'm _a weapon—why go through all the trouble of making me what I am unless you were preparing for something? Something that's going to happen soon, that you need me for, and that's why you've been so desperate to get me back."

"Drop the gun."

"Let the others go."

Uriel closed a few feet between them. Storm saw his fingers twitch and she tightened her hold on the gun, preparing to fight his pull, but nothing came. Uriel's eyes continued to narrow.

"I'm _sick _of playing the game by your rules," Storm told him, voice hoarse and heavy in her throat. "You're going to listen to me now, and I hope you don't think I'm bluffing when I say I'll blow my own bird brains out—making everything you worked and fought for, all for nothing."

Uriel took another step toward her and Storm pressed the nose of the gun harder into her temple. The space between them seemed fragile to the point of the smallest breath would shatter it.

"I let them go and what then?"said Uriel. "What of us? You? What do I get in return?"

"I'm not offering myself. Don't let them go, and I shoot. Let them go, and it ends two ways. Either you manage to bring me back to Heaven, or you die here."

Uriel let out a bark of laughter, and suddenly it seemed like there were a thousand Uriel's laughing all around Storm, echoing against the walls and ringing in her ears.

"Of all things you could have said, I'm glad that was it," said Uriel, miming wiping away a tear of mirth. He stared into Storm's straight face and let out another chortle. "Lower the gun, and I'll free them."

"You're lying."

"So then that thins your list of options." Uriel folded his hands in front of him, a grin splitting across his lips, looking nothing more than a crooked hole in his face. "Let me tell you something, birdy. You come to Heaven with me, you let us finish you, let us use you . . . we can make you human again afterward. We can return you to your family, where you'll live happily ever after as Lily, with your mother, your baby brother. His name is Calvin. He's fourteen by now. They live on a farm in Ohio. Would you like to see what they look—"

"Go fuck yourself."

His leer slipped a little. "There _is _one thing I can promise: if I die here and you leave this place alive, you'll turn every eye of Heaven toward you. You think _I _was a thorn in your side? There are some big nasties out there that prefer dove meat."

"Make a decision, Uriel."

Uriel's nostrils flared so it looked like he had invisible olives stuck up them. "They are already free. Dean has served his purpose here. In the end, you will serve yours. You will scream, little birdy."

A towering metal structure positioned just to Storm's right suddenly started creaking and groaning like a thing in pain as it slowly began to fall. She hurried out of the way, just narrowly avoiding the the tower collapsing to the ground with a gargantuan explosion of metal, rousing a thick cloud of dust. When it cleared, Storm saw that Uriel was no longer there.

Something that was not fear but close to it prickled in Storm's fingertips; it was her power, riled up after being harnessed for so long, excited to be released when it sensed danger nearby.

_No. Get the angel blade. _

But before Storm could even do a full 360 scope of the room, she was lifted from her feet and hurled through the air, soaring seven feet before her back came in painful contact with the edge of a metal table. A pain the size of a basketball throbbed on her lower back, begging her to just stay still. She shifted onto her hands and knees, raising her head in time to see Uriel striding toward her, but she couldn't hear what he was saying over the panicked instinct that rang in her skull like an alarm bell. She dropped the gun, aimed her open palm at the ceiling and curled her fingers over thin air until there was a threatening cracking sound before the roof caved in, pouring in streams of moonlight as huge pieces of lethal debris came tumbling down.

All at once, Storm shouted out as what felt like rusty teeth bit into her brain, the rock tumbling to the place Uriel had just been. Knuckles digging into her forehead, Storm pulled herself to her feet, chest heaving.

"You feel that?" Uriel's disembodied voice taunted her. "Every time you use that power, that pain in your head is when a bit of your sanity leaves you. Madness is eventually going to possess you completely."

"Oh just SHUT UP!" With Storm's scream, the floor and walls shook and cracked around her, making her almost fall over again. In this distraction, she ducked under another chunk of falling debris and into the shadow of a staircase. Almost instantaneously, someone backhanded her hard enough for her to stumble into the nearby wall, her cheek a single throb of hot pain. Tasting blood, she turned to look at Uriel, seven feet away, half-bathed in shadow.

"This is what you're looking for," he said, and from his sleeve, he gracefully withdrew an elegant blade of shimmering steel, reflecting in the silver moonlight. "I don't think so. You're going to have to kill me what that power, though I'm convinced the amount that is necessary to kill an angel will erase a whole year of your sanity. Your choice."

The reflecting blade disappeared within the seam of Uriel's cuff. The half of his face that Storm could see was grinning. She licked away a bead of blood, the blood everyone was going insane over, from the corner of her mouth, a metallic tang sliding down her throat as she swallowed.

Uriel's hand suddenly gripped Storm's forearm, tugging until she actually felt her shoulder dislocate. She yelled out as she was whirled around like a tetherball, managing to snag her grip on the side of Uriel's throat. With a silent explosion, both of them rebounded off each other and Storm saw for a split second Uriel's body flying through the air like a huge doll before her feet hit the ground, skidding a couple feet, swaying but remaining in a stance. Uriel was on his feet instantaneously, clenching and unclenching his fists in a manner that he was imagining Storm's throat grasped between them. It seemed there was too much hate and anger flowing through him for him to be even able to shoot one of his usual taunts at her. He was just charging at her like a bull toward a red flag and Storm stood still, though shaking every bit on her insides, preparing to throw everything she had at him.

Then, as though an invisible wall had suddenly sprung up from oblivion, Uriel came upon impact with something, halting him a mocking ten feet from Storm. He whirled around, confusion and fury wrinkling up his expression before it slowly softened into cool comprehension. He whispered something Storm could not hear, but she understood in the following moments.

Castiel assumed center position between Uriel and Storm, his back to her so she could not see his expression. Uriel regained himself before him, letting out a small laugh as he dusted off the front of his suit, running a hand over his nonexistent hair.

"And whom else to stop me but my own brother?" said Uriel. "You do have a knack for timing."

Storm took a tentative step forward, and Castiel immediately turned his head halfway toward her.

"Stay where you are," he told her, then turned back to the other angel.

"You stand in the position of treason, Castiel," said Uriel. "Victory is five feet behind you. Claim her now and we will be able to look into the future. Finally."

"You speak to me of treason," started Castiel slowly, "Alastair shouldn't have been able to break that trap. I made it myself. We've been friends for a long time, Uriel. Fought by each other's sides, served together away from home, for what seems like forever. We're brothers, Uriel. Pay me that respect. Tell me the truth."

"The truth . . ." Uriel fixed Castiel with a speculative eye before it soared right past his shoulder and lingered on Storm. "The truth is that _thing _you are guarding holds so much more than a single key, but a thousand keys to unlock any door imaginable. A _thing _our so-called father whipped our backs into creating without ever telling us what it could do."

"Did you set Alastair on Dean?"

"You question me when you can already see the truth in my eyes."

"I want to hear you say it."

Uriel's gaze left Storm to rest upon Castiel. "I only turned the screws a little. Alastair should have killed Dean and escaped, and you should have gone off scapegoating demons."

Castiel was silent for a moment. "You murdered our kin."

"My work is conversion. How long have we waited here? How long have we played this game by rules that make no sense?" He nodded at Storm. "Why hide such a pretty sparkling thing in the back of a broom closet? Do you even know what it can do, brother?"

Castiel did the smallest glances at Storm over his shoulder before casting his gaze downward. "It was never our job to know. It was our father's rule."

"He stopped being our father when he chose humanity as his favorite, the squirming, puking larva. Heaven wants this whining little thing all to itself. But now I see it's the key to our victory. The Athedas, Castiel, was built to make all chaos possible. Controlled by the right puppeteer, and its power can be focused on anything, any_one_, in this dimension or the next, obliterating it in milliseconds. Can you imagine," he laughed suddenly, "disposing of the _entire _human race under five seconds?" The greed sunk back into gaze, and he looked at Storm like a schoolboy staring at a toy he has long-since desired. "It just needs to be finished."

Storm's veins had frostbite. She was clenching her jaw so tightly it went numb with lack of blood. Castiel could only stare at the deranged angel, feeling that there was a leak in the world in which all sense and reason had drained out of.

"I wanted you by my side, brother, _fighting _by my side," Uriel went on, "because with the aid of the Athedas, the doors of Hell can be easily opened, releasing . . ."

"Lucifer."

"He was beautiful, don't you remember? He did not bow to humanity, and he was punished for defending us. With you by my side, with a weapon to destroy anyone who stands between us, with a leader like Lucifer . . . Castiel, don't you see the beauty of that kind of world?"

"Lucifer is not God."  
"God isn't God anymore. He doesn't care what we do. I am proof of that."  
"But this? What were you going do, Uriel? Were you going to kill the whole garrison? Obliterate the face of humanity clean off the planet?  
"I only killed the ones who said no. Others have joined me, Castiel. Now, please, brother, don't fight me. Help me. Help me spread the word. Help me bring on the apocalypse. All you have to do is be unafraid."  
Castiel was silent for the longest ten seconds of Storm's life. He met her eyes briefly over his shoulder before turning back to Uriel. "For the first time in a long time, I am."

Uriel smiled. "I promised I would pull out her feathers while you watched. I'll make sure you're alive long enough to see it."

Like an invisible tornado had just collided with her, Storm was being hurled through the air again, airborne for a full five seconds before landing painfully on the concrete floor, hearing a few ribs crack. At first she thought it had been an attack of Uriel's, but then realized it was Castiel throwing her from the heat of the battle.

Her throbbing brain felt like it was going to pop out her eyeballs. She clutched her side as she shifted onto her knees. Castiel and Uriel were two blurry fighting figures in the corner of her eye. She forced herself to her feet, glancing toward the door that led out into the hallway where she could look for the others, then back to the two angels.

Uriel had an angel blade in one hand, and a metal bar in the other, striking Castiel across the face with the latter.

"You haven't even met the man—there is no will—no wrath—no God," said Uriel, delivering a punch to Castiel between each phrase.

Storm's mind felt washed up and used, unwilling to articulate a solid plan. An almost audible, prickly rush washed down her back in her effort to concentrate.

_He's losing Castiel's losing he's going to die do something you've got to do something._

In the parade of chaotic thought that swarmed Storm's brain like bees in a hive, she was able to make out a least one solid sense of reason; she couldn't let Castiel die.

Knuckling away some blood from her bottom lip, Storm started forward in a run, snowy veins cascading across the corners of her vision. It felt like she was trying to move through molasses, or run from a monster in a nightmare. Castiel and Uriel didn't seem to be getting any closer.

Uriel had Castiel by the front of his shirt, hovering over him with the blade held over his head, raising it like he was about to swing an axe. "Goodbye, br—"

Storm collided with Uriel's side, locking an arm around his throat and grasping him by the jaw, clenching her eyes shut as they tumbled to the ground. And then she allowed the wrecking ball to clash with the overflowing dam, releasing every ounce of power that was fit to burst from her insides. It poured from every pore in her body, white-hot stinging waves of electricity that shot directly into Uriel in her grasp. His mouth was a gaping hole of a silent scream, completely paralyzed.

The pain in her head was past fathomable thought, past endurance, ripping open her brain, splitting apart her veins, opening the chasm of power buried in the abyss of her center.

Wind was howling like human screams, clouds rolling in over the building, seen through the gaps in the ceiling, which was starting to crumble again as Castiel stared in utter incredulity and terror at Storm and Uriel. Her face was upturned, mouth agape, eerily similar to Uriel's expression, like an unused dummy. For a moment, Castiel was sure he could see black pour into her eyes like ink, like a demon's. The hurricane of debris surrounded the three of them, the building walls cracking and then collapsing, the whole building caving in around them.

Then, Uriel was disintegrating, his flesh peeling off like fluttering pieces of flaming paper, drifting into the air like ash. There was no bone, muscles, or blood underneath, nothing but air. The last of Uriel to go were his eyes, staring upward, terrified and human.

He was gone.

"STORM!" Castiel shouted over the wind and thunder, and it was only then did he understand why Sam Winchester had given her such a name. He was terrified, but moreover what he was seeing than fear of his own life.

Storm was on her knees, arms hanging bonelessly at her sides, head slowly drooping until her chin rested on her chest. For a bizarre moment, Castiel thought she looked like she was praying. He hastened toward her, crouching before her and clutching her boneless shoulders. She lifted her head, stared at him. Her eyes were bottomless black, all apart from the pupil, which was white. Blood was pouring profusely from her nose, ears, and the teardrops of her eyes.

Over the wind, Castiel almost didn't make out her next words: "I can't see."

The wind instantly died, then immediately following the large crashes of debris falling all around them until they sat together in a sort of sacrificial circle of rubble. In comparison to the screams of the storm, the silence reverberated around the room like a gong.

Castiel moved his hands to hold the side of her face, her neck seeming unwilling to support the weight of her head. Her lips moved soundlessly, every one of her breaths sounding like she was trying to inhale razorblades. Life trickled into her nerves and she blindly raised her hands, seeking out his. He took them.

"Hell," she said in not a weak voice, but a dead one. "He's in Hell. I sent him to Hell."

Castiel witnessed the black of her eyes slowly pour out an invisible drain, the pupil transitioning back, her iris's fading to their usual dark green. She stared at nothing, at everything, her grip on him loosening. For once, her skin was whiter than her hair, her lips like chalk. She almost looked old-fashioned black and white. Her eyes found his, and through her gaze, he saw a window to the little girl he had once seen on the riverbank, collecting rocks into a yellow pail. The girl she never got to be, because of him.

Castiel stared into her eyes, unspeaking.

Her head bowed, the crown of it pressing against Castiel's chest. Staring around at the rubble, he raised a tentative hand to rest on the back of her head, her hair trickling through his fingers like water. Her bones seemed to deflate as unconsciousness claimed her mind, just like everything else in the world.

.

No one knew what was going to happen once Storm opened her eyes. They stayed like that, closed lids smooth and white as alabaster, for twenty-three hours now. Castiel was monitoring her with a grazing stare, only looking away to examine his own dirty knuckles.

Dean was in a hospital due to the injuries Alastair inflicted upon him. Castiel knew, in time, he would have to visit the elder Winchester. Would he be able to answer any of his questions? He feared the transition.

As for Storm . . . what could a hospital do for her at this point? Modern medicine had no affect on the wounds of a broken mind. If it really was completely broken this time, Castiel was not sure, and he had no way of being sure until she woke up. He could not pick up any brain waves from her, but this told him nothing as she seemed immune to most angel abilities. He had fixed her dislocated shoulder and mended all of her broken ribs, but she was so frighteningly immobile. Her chest seemed still of any breath, and only when you lowered your ear to her nose did you hear the wispy intake of inhaling and exhaling.

So she was in a bed and breakfast, of all places. It was a lot homier than a dingy motel, and this room was decorated with vintage furniture, something Castiel thought she might like if she were awake to enjoy it. It had taken some convincing on Castiel's part to convince Sam to part her side, but he knew his brother needed him more, as there was nothing he could do for an unconscious Storm.

She had said that she sent Uriel to Hell. Castiel pondered the likelihood of this, and it went without a doubt that Storm was capable of things he never imagined possible, like sending an angel to Hell for instance. This raised the disturbing concept of Storm having some easy power over Hell's doors, which is of course why Uriel wanted her in the first place; to free Lucifer.

It was bizarre. Out of all the things that had happened the previous day, the terrors it ensued, Uriel's betrayal, the madness in his eye, the violent demonstration of Storm's abilities, nothing disturbed Castiel more than the way she had said 'I can't see.' She had said it in a bland, dead voice, a voice that finally admitted defeat to all of her emotions, a voice that said she wanted it over with, that she wanted to die.

Doves were not born to fly as dragons, Castiel concluded.

He stood up and sauntered to the window, pulling aside the thick blood-colored curtain and peering outside. The blizzard was still plowing on, which had poured down on them out of nowhere after the events at the factory. The trees were stripped completely of their leaves now, leaving them gnarly and ominous. Castiel was nose-to-nose with his own reflection, not wanting to look into his own eyes.

There was a creak of a mattress spring. Castiel turned to see Storm awake, meeting her eyes, eyes he was partially afraid would be black with the white pupil. The most frightening thing about them was their violent exhaustion. She was frozen in a half-upright position. Castiel thought she might never speak.

"How long was I out that time?" she said finally. It sounded as though she had sand and staples in her lungs.

"A day."

She shifted into a sitting position, resting her forehead on her hand for a moment before running it through her hair. Several strands came loose, hanging from her fingers. She stared at them. "I'm balding."

Castiel didn't know how to reply to that so he said tentatively, "Do you like the room?"

Obviously not hearing him, Storm was staring at her hands as though she had never seen them before. She clenched the sheets between her fingers. He heard the bones crack.

"Were you sticking around to make sure I wouldn't blow up the building when I wake up?" she asked, looking up at him. "I wouldn't blame you."

He paused again, and then said, "You used a great deal of power. There was no telling what state of mind you would be in afterward."

"Insane people aren't supposed to know they're insane, right? So . . . " She coughed like an old woman on her death bed. "The most noticeable thing is that I've got a killer headache and my eyesight is absolutely horrible right now, like I have this white tinted screen over my eyes. I can't feel my feet, either, but it's fading a little." She sunk back into the pillow and closed her eyes.

"Storm."

She really didn't want to respond, Castiel could tell, but she said, "Mm."

"You said you sent Uriel to Hell. How would you know that?"

She didn't say anything for at least ten seconds. Then, without opening her eyes, she frowned and said, "Because that's where I wanted him to go."

Castiel couldn't think of anything to say.

Storm's eyes slowly opened. They sought his.

"Do you think it's true?" she said.

"Do I think what is true?"

"What Uriel said I could do. Do you think I could completely annihilate the human race in five seconds?"

"I honestly do not know. I told you that I never knew your true purpose."

"Have a guess then."

Castiel studied her eyes, and saw all she wanted was honesty. "You were built into a weapon," he said after a few beats. "And a weapon's main function is to destroy."

She shifted upright against the bed frame; it looked like a lot of work. "I've already made Dean promise me, and I have to make you promise me too, Castiel. I'm slipping. Faster now, after everything it took for me to kill Uriel. If we can't figure out how to fix my head before I reach rock-bottom psycho, and if Dean somehow can't get to me in time, I need to make sure you will be."

There had always been something youthful about Storm's face, a lingering expression of childlike curiosity and innocence. Everything but the eyes, which currently bored holes into Castiel's head with a penetrating wisdom that was a hundred years old. It was beyond disconcerting, and Castiel had seen some disconcerting things in his time.

" . . . I will do everything in my power to make sure that does not happen," he said quietly.

"And if it does, promise me you'll be there to defuse the bomb. It's my one life or the world's."

Castiel was so used to talks about 'the greater good' that at this point his mind was almost numb to it. But he understood. He gave something barely countable as a nod; a mere vague jerk in the air with his chin, but it seemed to satisfy Storm.

Her eyes drifted across the gray-lit room until landing on the window. Shifting aside the blanket as though it were the weight of a person, she swung her legs from under the sheets, her feet landing on the cold floorboard. The icy-blue veins on the back of her pale feet stuck out like spiderwebs. She tried to shift into a standing position, but her legs would not support.

" . . . I can't feel my feet," she said. She tried again to no avail.

"Most likely just an aftermath of using so much power," Castiel murmured. He knelt before her proposal-style and rested the heel of her foot against his palm, pressing his thumb to the sole. Her leg twitched.

"I'm a little ticklish," she apologized.

He tried again. A sensation of cool liquid poured out of the tip of his thumb and into her foot. She relaxed in his hold.

"Better?" he said quietly.

"Yes."

He tended to the other one. He felt—and he tried to ignore the warm gush that rose up inside him at the prospect—like someone, like a father, placing a band-aid on his daughter's wound. It was a strange thing to take pride in, but he did.

She flexed her toes and tested their strength on the ground. "Thank you," she said.

Castiel didn't reply. His head was a little bowed, brow wrinkled with thought as he stared at the ground, not wanting to meet her eyes. He felt her studying him.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, still not rising from his kneeling position, still not looking at her. Maybe it was redundant to say why, but he went on anyway, "I had never known the fate that awaited you when I brought you to Heaven with me, but I cannot lie and say I didn't know you would suffer. It was my father's word, and his word was never meant to be understood, only followed. No questions. No doubts. These things are punishable by our kind. And now I question . . ." Who 'God' was anymore, but he couldn't bring himself to word it.

He had no need for breath, yet he inhaled and exhaled for the illusion of strength. "It's always been you who has tested my faith. Torturing a little girl—and being asked to stand by, not allowed to ask 'why.' Still, now . . . I am confused as ever on what to believe anymore."

Storm gazed down at him until he finally lifted his face to stare back at her.

"You have a strong sense of right and wrong," she said, "but I don't think you want to feel it because the 'wrong' thing to do contradicts what you always believed to be 'right'."

Castiel got leisurely to his feet. "Are you so certain not to blame me?"

"I was never taught about right or wrong. I've had three years on this planet. The only thing I've got to go on is how I feel, and I think I've been right a decent amount of the time. I've seen bad, enough to recognize the good in you. You're confusing as hell sometimes, but you're good. If you want to believe in something, believe in that."

For a moment, Castiel felt rather small, like this room was the entire world with nothing on the outside. No Heaven, no Hell, no angels or demons, just Storm and him. It took him a moment or two to realize this concept was comforting. Yet his potential decisions haunted him, a reminder it was dangerous to pretend all was well.

Storm finally got to her feet, jiggling them as those trying to shake the blood back into her toes. She moved toward the window to watch the snow fall, and Castiel stared at her reflection in the glass. The snow reflecting off her eyes made them a jade color.

"My first Christmas was in the hospital. It was a good one," she said, her reflection smiling back at her. "Everything was new to me, the way a child's first Christmas was new to them. But for everyone else it was so long ago that they can't remember that feeling. I do. I remember the way I felt when I first saw snow. There're few times where I felt just as happy."

She exhaled, her breath obscuring her reflection. She looked over her shoulder at the angel. "In some ways, that feeling is what I'm most afraid of losing." Her brows raised a little, then she turned fully to face him. "That's strange, isn't it?"

Castiel contemplated on his answer for a long time, then he said, "For anyone else, maybe." Then he smiled. A sad and weary vision, but Storm couldn't recall ever seeing him doing it before now. "But you're Storm."

.

It was only twenty-five minutes from the hospital to the bed and breakfast, but when Sam braved the icy roads, it took close to an hour to finally pull into the hotel parking lot. It might have been just his imagination (yet if he were honest with himself when had _anything _ever been _just _his imagination?) but the blizzard seemed to especially favor the area of the bed and breakfast. At the hospital, it had been a mere flurry. But as he trudged through face-cutting wind up the slippery stone steps of the establishment, he could barely make out the front door through the sideways slope of ice and snow.

His nose and cheeks were frost-kissed and red by the time he made it inside. His fingers and toes had little to no feeling, but the worst of it was his stomach which felt like it had ripped open with anxiety. He wasn't sure what to expect when he saw Storm; in his brief encounter with Cas at the hospital he had only told Sam that she was in a relatively stable condition. That meant she was still sane, but not necessarily alright.

He didn't know of anything that happened the day before, except that it was Storm that caused the building to cave in and that Uriel was now dead. He didn't have any intention of telling her of what happened his end, how he killed Alastair—not yet, anyway. Not now. Though it was the least of his worries. He just wanted to make sure she was okay.

The receptionist gave Sam Storm's room number, but told him the elevator was out of order so he jogged up two flights up stairs, panting by the time he reached the second landing. He tried to knock instead of pound on the door. He heard movement on the other side and Storm answered seconds later.

She looked better than what Sam thought she would, whose mind traveled to the worse case scenario; skeletal face, paper-thin skin, bruises for eyes, and a tremble in her voice. Yet she was only slightly less paler than her hair, and there were circles under her eyes that looked as though they had no intention of leaving. But the smile in her eyes, familiar and comforting as ever, was alive.

Instead of hugging him or kissing him as he sheepishly had been half-expecting and hoping, she took his hand in hers and led him into room. Her hand felt small, soft, and warm, and was completely dominated by his large one. Sam saw she had made a nest of pillows and blankets by the unlit fireplace. An open book lay on one of the pillows, but it had no visible title.

Sam was watching her closely. She caught his speculative eye.

"Something different about you," she said.

He paused, feeling a bit of unease prickle at the hairs of his neck, then shook his head to display his confusion. Her eyes fell to his hand, which had been tweaking slightly. He flexed his fingers casually, then slid them into his jean pocket.

Pause.

"Did Castiel tell you I woke up?" she said.

"About an hour ago, yeah."

"How much did he tell you?"

"Not much . . ." Sam tried to make it appear he was not pressuring her to relay him with the details. He wasn't even sure how curious he was. "I just wanted to make sure you're alright."

She leaned back on the bed post, enclosing his hand in both of hers. She smiled such a tired smile, one Sam could tell she was weary of delivering. "I'm on my two feet," she said. "Air in my lungs. My thoughts are mostly my own." She paused, taking in Sam's less than amused expression. "How's Dean?"

"Beat up pretty badly, but the doc says there won't be any permanent damage."

"Don't you think you should be with him?"

He gave her a look, indecisive on his emotions. "He never woke up the entire time I was there," he said. "You're awake. I thought you'd . . . y'know . . ." He bumped up his eyebrows uncertainly, glancing at the floor. "Need someone."

Her gaze twitched from his to the window where purple twilight could be seen settling on the snowy land. He was so used to her always knowing what to say that he found her silence slightly disconcerting. No matter how instinctual it was to ask 'How are you?', he clearly sensed it was quite the wrong thing to say. Or maybe he was just too used to Dean always shrugging off the question.

"Do you want some tea?" he blurted out. "I brought some from the hospital. But, uh, they didn't have green tea. Will lemon ginger root do?"

She stared at him as though she had only just noticed him, hugging the bedpost with her free arm as though it were the Safe in a game of tag. After a moment's silence, in which her mind was clearly elsewhere, she gave a single nod; once up, once down, then back in the middle.

Sam was starting to worry.

Normally he would have made himself some coffee, but he found himself boiling some water for two cups of tea instead. When done, he sat himself down beside her in the nest of bedding, in which she was curled up in like a cat, staring into the cold fireplace. She took her mug when he offered.

"Thank you," she said.

He nodded.

She stared at him through the ribbons of steam, then gingerly raised the brim to her mouth, pursing her lips when she found it was too hot. Sam cleared his throat, taking the tea bag by the string and stirring it. Awkwardness was something he never, not once, experienced with Storm, but he found it thick in the air when he could think of absolutely nothing to say. But she seemed so far off in thought he doubt she even noticed it.

"Storm," he said on a desperate whim after almost a full five minutes of this. Once more her eyes found him as though he had just materialized from thin air. "Storm do you wanna talk or . . ." He shook his head. "Or . . . we don't have to. We can just sit, or . . ."

She sat up and rested her chin on her knees, cupping her mug with both hands and sipping. God she looked young just then. It was like the child she was neglected to be sometimes came out in her tiniest actions.

Sam wondered if she had even heard him; she was staring at something in the space of the room that wasn't there.

"Storm," he said again, abandoning his tea and inching a little closer to her, trying to keep patience in his voice. "Do you wanna talk?"

He felt like he was speaking in a foreign language as she studied him. He opened his mouth to add something else, but she cut over him, "C'mere, Sam." When he frowned, she repeated with a straight face, "Just c'mere."

Sam kept his narrowed eyes on her for a moment longer before obliging. Upon habit, he brushed a few hairs from her eyes, right before she planted a kiss to his lips. It was so abrupt that his eyes were still open by the time she withdrew, just a centimeter.

Her eyes twinkled with something as they continued to stare at each other, until she slowly ran her fingers up his before interlacing them. She leaned her head against his chest, ear over his heart. He relaxed, their contact melting the walls of tension, and suddenly there was nothing wrong with the world. His nerves felt like butterflies under her touch. He secured his arms around her, and she turned so that her back leaned against his front, his chin resting on the crown of her head as they stared out the window at the falling snow.

"I'm tired of giving you dramatic speeches," she said. "But I don't know how much time my mind has left." He looked down at her, saying nothing. "And if back then I had known back then what I know now, I'd have told you how I felt a lot sooner."

He clenched his eyes shut as he listened, sensing his train of tranquility was about to derail.

"I killed Uriel," she continued after a few long beats. "And I think he was right when he said that killing an angel would take a huge proportion of my sanity. I—can feel it. In my head. Everywhere."

Beneath him, Sam felt her grow completely still, even of breath.

She turned to face him. "You need to be prepared to let me go, Sam."

A layer of frost seemed to cover Sam's heart. He leaned away from her, breaking their embrace as though her words had just bit him. He stared at her, mouthing words he had no breath for, shook his head, then tried again. "No," he got out, and even to him he sounded like a stubborn child. "No, I won't accept that."

He was thinking of Jess, of Madison, and the memory of their deaths were logs thrown into the fire that fueled his desperation to keep Storm alive. Because in all truthfulness, no matter how juvenile it sounded, it just _wasn't fair. _His throat seemed to burn with a furious frustration, having no idea how to word the impossibility of him admitting defeat.

"We've talked about this—"

"I don't care what it takes, I'm gonna get you out of this," he said, repeating the same words he said to Dean after finding out about the Crossroad deal.

Sam could tell Storm didn't believe in that outcome as he gazed into her eyes, and for once they did not mirror the smile her mouth made. But at this point, Sam didn't care; one way or another he was going to make his statement a reality no matter what she believed.

"My point isn't to tell you how terrified I am, or that I'm sure we'll find a way around it or not," she went on. "I'm just trying to tell you that you're the person I want to spend the rest of my minutes of my every day with, however many that is. But you already know that."

There was a small thud and a spill of liquid as Storm turned to face him fully, knocking over her mug of untouched tea in the process. She pressed her thumb to his protesting lips. The voice with which she spoke with next, although the quietest he had ever heard it, was also the strongest. "No arguing. No talking. Make love to me while I'm still Storm."

Then she was kissing him as she had never kissed him before, and Sam felt like the sun was inside his body. His previous angry determination was transitioning into a hot tingle of desire that rode his nerves like shock waves. Her lips molded with his so well, and he couldn't help but wonder if there was any feeling out there that could remotely compare to how it felt when she kissed him. There was something different about this kiss, though; nothing sweet or tender about it, but with her body she clearly told him she was starving for something. His pulse started picking up to the point his veins could hardly keep up.

Sam felt her fingers at his collar, pulling at it gently as his own hands snaked up her spine, under her hair, resting at the nape of her neck as their kiss deepened. He slipped his fingers under the open flaps of her button down shirt, pulling it down her arms, off her body, exposing the stained tank top. Even through the black material, he could see her nipples erect. He rolled the balls of his thumbs over them, lowering his face to the hollow of her throat, licking, nibbling, kissing her flesh, feeling the hum of her soft moan against his lips. He lifted the shirt over her head, his breath hoarse and hot in his throat as his eyes fell to her breasts, then locking with hers as he began to massage them, nipples rubbing against his calloused palms, igniting the friction between them.

Not wishing for her to feel self conscious, he reached for the first button of his shirt but she suddenly leaned forward, brushing aside his fingers to replace them with hers.

"I want to," she said. The three words, simple as they were, did a considerable job of making his pulse skyrocket. He took a quick breath, watching her adamantly as her fingers moved slowly up his body, taking their time in reaching the top button. He ran his hand through her hair, feeling that his fingers felt cleaner after doing so.

At the time she reached the fourth button, she opened the flap of his shirt to press her soft lips to his chest. His lungs tightened beneath her mouth as it spread across his heating flesh, lowering every time she released him of another button until her lips almost met his pelvis. His breathing became sharp, almost painful. All of his cardiac muscles were undergoing extreme strain as his heart galloped beneath his chest bone. She kissed him on the mouth as she slipped her hands into the sleeves of his shirt, slowly pulling it off him until it pooled around his elbows.

He smiled as he watched her admire his body, trailing the thin tips of her nails across his chest with a feather-light touch, as though wary of harming a priceless artifact. He closed his eyes, goosebumps erupting wherever her finger tread.

Suddenly, pictures flashed across his closed eyelids like his own private movie theater. All in a millisecond, they seemed to display everything he loved about her. The slight crookedness of her bottom row of teeth, the cute passion in her eyes when she drew, her ridiculous laugh, the way she said 'Sam Winchester', her gentleness that was nothing but the eye of the hurricane.

A drop of poison pooled in his sea of ecstasy as he thought about the concept of losing all those things, losing her, of being unable to save her. He latched his fingers with much more roughness than he intended to the nape of her neck, rolling on top of her pushing her body into the floor. He held the side of her head, combing through the light, tangle-less locks of white hair, giving a hard pull when his hand reached the crown of her head. Anything to make her as real and present as possible.

He abruptly wondered if he had been too persistent and suddenly withdrew, still an inch away from her face and breathing heavily. "Are you . . . I didn't mean to . . ." He broke off awkwardly.

She folded back his bangs, her head tilted a little as she smiled up at him. "I'm not going anywhere. Not now."

"I just know you've never done this before . . ."

"No, I haven't," she said, continuing to play with his hair. "You show your love the way you know how to, Sam Winchester, and I wouldn't want it any differently. I don't want you to pretend to do something just to make me comfortable. Just because my level of experience is different than yours doesn't make our love making ways incompatible. I'm not going to learn how to do everything in one night, so teach me along the way. I want you, all of you. Now."

There was no more gentleness in her voice. They stared at each other, his nose touching hers and the bulk of his shoulders just big enough to cast a shadow over her face. Then he crushed their lips back together, his mouth opening hers and her hot breathe trickling past his lips, their tongues tangling together.

He started pulling at her jeans, slipping them impatiently down her legs so that she lay exposed under him in nothing but her underwear. As she stared up at him, eyes hooded and a smile playing at the corner of her heart lips, Sam thought she looked older, like a woman, a woman who had lived a full life. It was an unexpected but overwhelming turn on. He wanted to see her eyes clench shut as she couldn't take the overwhelming pleasure he would inflict upon her.

Her panties were already moist when he rubbed through them at her clit, and he watched, hungrily, as her milky cheeks flushed with rosy color, her abdomen tense with anticipation, her tongue flicking desperately behind her parted lips. She started to quiver beneath him as he fingered her through the cotton material, sliding his tongue along her nipple and sucking while keeping eye-contact.

She came a lot quicker than even the first time Sam had pleased her. He was so immersed on feeling her shudder beneath him, seeing her throat inflate and deflate with rapid breath, that he hardly noticed the unlit logs in the fireplace give a crack and spark of life, yet not igniting. But when he glanced at it Storm immediately seized him by the back of the neck and crushed his mouth back to hers, biting his lip hard.

As she massaged the ever-hardening bulge beneath his jeans, a jolt of excitement seared Sam's throat. After thoroughly disposing himself of his pants, Sam slid his middle finger along the wet spot on her purple panties then slipped it under the rim, settling three fingers against her sopping clit. He watched her bite her lip, spreading her legs further for him and he fed from such a sight.

With one hand on her inner thigh, he eased her into turning around onto all fours so that her ass was exposed to him. She moved with hesitant anticipation, her nipples grazing the floorboard as she bent slightly forward. Still lightly rubbing her clit, he ran his other set of fingers up and down her back, which felt as smooth as white marble. She actually gave a little moan when he ran a finger from the nape of her neck, down her spine, and then to end point of her tailbone. His cock gave a painful throb as he watched her hips start to rotate, riding his working hand.

Heart pounding in his every cell, Sam started to pull her panties down her thighs, kissing, biting, and licking at her right cheek. He massaged each globe for a moment before spreading them, clamping his mouth over her clit, sliding his tongue over the sensitive spots he knew would make her shiver most.

Storm could barely moan out his name as she reached behind to clench a fistful of his hair, revering in the strange sensation of this new position. Sam's tongue fucked and lapped at her pussy in a very audible way, digging his thumbs into her ass cheeks and spreading them for easier entrance. Grinding against his face, she curled her fingers against the floorboards until she heard a crack of fire, this time a lingering flame flickering in the fireplace. A familiar fire of her own was erupting in Storm's core, feathering out in white pulses of ecstasy as she neared the edge of her orgasm. When it hit her with the force of a wrecking ball, she muffled her scream into the nearest pillow, biting down on the cotton material as her knees buckled. Simultaneously, sparks rose from the fire like red insects.

With some aid from Sam, she rolled onto her back, eyes directed heavenward as though praying to God almighty as the aftershocks of her orgasm sent tremors through her body. Meeting her eyes with his head between her legs, Sam placed his hand under her right knee and lifted her thigh, sliding his tongue up the shining trails of cum that had trickled down. She shuddered at the erotic vision.

Sam hovered over her on all fours, the newly lit fire making his bare chest glow a golden tan. Storm only thought the idea and Sam's belt undid itself with no visible means of assistance. His jeans couldn't come off fast enough, and the two frantically kissed until they joined the pile of clothing beside them on the floor.

Storm started mentally hyperventilating at his length, suddenly a little nervous at the concept of experiencing a sensation she had never felt before. Sam caught her under the chin with his thumb and forefinger and stared down into her eyes.

"Alright?" he said quietly.

She nodded, running her fingers up his scalp and through his hair, applying pressure on the back of his head to bring his mouth to hers. She kissed up his jawline until lips met his ear, suckling at the lobe. Massaging the length of his shaft, spreading the precum with her forefinger, she breathed, "Now, Sam."

He caught her in a powerful kiss, biting on her lower lip and dragging it back so that it throbbed. Caressing her temple with his thumb, he said, "It'll hurt at first. Just tell me if I'm going too fast."

Storm thought of telling him she was no stranger to pain, but bit it back. He watched her for a moment as the fire's light turned her hair a vague orange, how its light danced across her pale skin. She went breathless with arousal all over again as he lowered his face to the crook of her throat, kissing and nipping at her flesh as he reached between their legs and positioned his cock over her hot sweetness. He made sure to meet her eyes as his hips made their first gentle push, watching her lips part as he eased entrance within her. She circled her arms around his neck, drawing her nails up his shoulder blades, clenching her eyes as his hips thrust again, pushing himself in another inch.

She bit her lip. _Ow, ow, ow._

Her mind explored the thin line between pain and pleasure, and muscles she didn't know had been locked relaxed.

"Storm?" he breathed against her lips, and she knew he was looking for confirmation she was okay but she could only grip his hair and moan, "Oh God, Sam. Don't—don't sto—" Her sentence was sucked away in a sharp gasp as he gingerly pushed in, then pulled out completely, then thrusting in nearly the entire length of his dick. The tip seemed to push an electrical point within her, making it seem as though she was shocked from the inside out.

He kissed her again, this time in the way where their lips were forced open by the other's, using each other's breath as a life force. The initial pain of his cock stretching her wet walls was transitioning into a burning friction, hitting that sweet spot again and again as the rhythm of his thrusts picked up, his powerful torso heaving forward with every push.

His strength and control aroused her almost as much as what his body was doing to her, revealing another more explicit side to pleasure she had never experienced. Their moans and groans rolling off one tongue and onto the other, Storm couldn't believe how erotic she found Sam meeting her eyes before delivering a particularly powerful thrust, how it made excitement spike into her veins when he grabbed fistfuls of her hair and pulled hard enough to make her neck crane, branding her flesh with hickeys. The fire was a vague dancing orange blur in the corner of Storm's eye, but its flame seemed to imitate the one brewing in her stomach.

She was panting, "Sam, Sam, Sam," continuously until she was almost lightheaded, and upon another violent thrust from him, she found herself huffing, "Sam _Winchester—!_"

Hearing his full name, spoken in tones of such breathless pleasure, was enough to make Sam's blood boil. With a hoarse growl coming from the back of his throat, he planted a hand between Storm's shoulder blades, the other under her thigh, pulling her up into a sitting position on his lap. She responded in full, grinding their hips together, pushing his cock as deep as it would go within her, kissing so hard their lips felt painfully raw. With their every combined movement, Storm's body delivered electrical currents up and down through his veins, exploding his nerves, feeding him a warm prickly pleasure that was as intense as it was awing.

Upon a sudden animalistic impulse, Sam planted one hand on her ass, the other under her thigh, holding her tight and lifting her easily into his arms. Forearms crossed at the nape of his neck, she stared into his eyes, cheeks the color of roses.

Sam pushed her up against the wall directly beside the fireplace, in which its flames seemed to be rising in time with his upward thrusts into her. He watched, with greed that burned like hunger, as her body lurched from the force of his, her breasts bouncing, her throat hollowing out as she sucked in desperate breaths that huffed out as his name, never breaking gazes.

It was taking all his willpower not to come at this sight alone, but she was so wet, so tight, constricting around his dick, making him yell out as though he had just been stabbed.

There was a trembling noise as all the pictures on the walls started shaking, soon followed by a shatter as one of them fell. With the combination of the fire that now seemed determined to escape the fireplace, it was as though the building was imitating Storm's rising orgasm Sam could feel she was nearing.

There was a sense of chaos in the passion that hung in the air like invisible fog. A desperate insanity, almost. An insanity neither of them ever wanted to end, because it was as close as they would ever get to touching fire without pain.

Sam backed up a few paces, still clutching their sweaty, shaking bodies together and gripping her by the waist, tucking his face in the crook of her neck and sliding his tongue up her pounding pulse, tasting her sweat. He growled against her inflamed flesh, "Come for me, Storm. Look me in the eyes and come."

He barely got out the words before her body seized in his arms, digging her nails into his shoulder blades until he was sure the skin broke, her moans cracked and breathless. Sam felt flames lick at his ankles as she came over his cock. He tried to restrain—with all his might—but more than anything else it was the look in Storm's eyes when she met his that made the orgasm wrack through him, like he had just been struck with a cattle prod. The backs of his knees hit the bed and they toppled onto the mattress, both of them trembling nearly uncontrollably.

There was no strength left in Sam, no energy even to lift his head to look at Storm. His thighs were pumping and abdomen twisting; having standing sex always looked so much easier in the movies. Even his lips ached a little as they twitched into an inevitable smile. His eyes searched for Storm's, which were staring at him through strings of sweaty white hair. She had one hand on his chest, the other trailing up and down the muscles of his arm. Her back was rising up and down in time with her heavy breathing, and over her shoulders Sam glanced at the fire which had died down considerably, now merely crackling contentedly.

One thing that had not calmed was the howling blizzard outside, and the two listened to it batter against the window for five long, extremely peaceful minutes as they caught their breath and bathed in the blissful aftershocks of their orgasms. Sam was tracing the red lines on Storm's back the brick wall had left when he pushed her against it. Then, out of the blue, Storm said, in a quiet voice, "Why didn't we do this a lot sooner?"

Sam laughed, stroking her hair. She snuggled up beside him, pulling the sheet up to their waists and resting her temple on his shoulder.

"Everything seems quieter," she said, then elaborated, "In here." She raised a gun finger to her head, unintentionally miming suicide. "It happens when I'm with you." She paused. "Is this supposed to be a quiet moment?"

He caressed her cheek with his thumb. "I know exactly what you mean."

She smiled. Her eyes flickered to the window to watch the snow fall, tracing feather-light designs across his chest. Her mind was blissfully empty of thought, replaced instead with a fuzzy warm elation she knew to be her love for Sam, nesting her in a comforting cocoon. But cocoons were delicate, and of course, temporary.

It was a funny thing . . . When dealing with horrors, and you'd do anything to make time speed up, it had a funny habit of making every moment forever. When bathed in bliss, as Storm was now, time was fleeting.

Her own words, _I don't know how much time my mind has left, _bit back at her with painful truth. She closed her eyes, opened her mind to everything in her surroundings; Sam's breathing, the dying fire, the howling wind, her own heart that seemed to be twisting like a damp rag under her chest. If she could remember exactly how she was feeling now, she didn't think she'd ever be capable of going insane.

Her thoughts must have been shining like a beacon on her expression because Sam said, "Storm," holding her chin between his fingers and lifting her face to his. She stared at him, feeling like sour cement had just poured down her throat. He studied her, eyes following the small bob in her throat as she swallowed. She brought her eyes level with his so that her hair curtained their faces.

"I've just had one of the most important and amazing experiences in a girl's life," she said. "And to have it with you, amidst everything that's going on, is the best thing that's happened to me in my three years. I want to be childish and forget tomorrow exists."

Sam frowned up at her, silent for only a few moments. "It doesn't," he said eventually, speaking almost as quietly as she. "Right now there's no tomorrow."

Storm pressed her thumb against his lips, and he lightly kissed it. Her eyes shone, lips mouthing soundlessly, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

They made love until daylight filled the room, their hair damp with sweat, bodies sore and throbbing, the windows fogged, the air pungent with the scent of salty sweat and bittersweet passion. The room showed visible suffering of broken paintings, cracked mirrors, a smoking radio, and a singed carpet. By the time the two were finally too exhausted to continue, it was a wonder the building was still standing.

* * *

**I named this chapter after the song 'Just a Game' by Birdy, and anyone who has listened to it would probably agree it draws bizarre parallels to this story. **

**Again, I am so, so sorry for the lack of updates, but I've simply been too caught up in life and have little time for writing lately.**

**Thank you so much for reading and I hope you have enjoyed. All feedback is appreciated. **


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